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Book 'L£gg| 

PRESENTED BY 



Pipe5 0^ P^t) at Zckesburt^ 



Bowen-Merrill Co , Indianapolis 

THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE AND 'LEVEN MORE POEMS 
SKETCHES AND POEMS 

AFTERWHILES 

PIPES O' PAN AT ZEKESBFRY 



IN ENGLAND 

Longmans, Green & Co., London 

OLD-FASHIONED ROSES 



rnurLni i ur i nc 

D. 8. DEPARTMENT OF LABOR. 



pipes 0' P^ii ^t 2ekesbury 



BY 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



INDIANAPOLIS 

BOWEN-MERRILL CO.. PUBLISHERS 
1891 






Copyright 1888 
JAMES WHIIUOMB RILEY 



c T • • • •* 



• • • 

• • • 



) * * 



TO 

MY BROTHER 

JOHN A. RILEY 

WITH MANY MEMORIES 

OF THE OLD 

HOME 



CONTENTS 



AT ZEKESBURY 13 

DOWN fll^OUND JHHB FJlYBI^ ^OBMS 

Down Around the River 37 

Kneeling with Herrick 39 

romancin' 40 

Has She Forgotten 43 

A' Old Played-Out Song 45 

The Lost Path . . . , 47 

The Little Tiny Kickshaw 48 

His Mother 49 

Kissing the Rod 50 

How IT Happened 51 

Babyhood 53 

The Days Gone By 54 

MRS. MILLER 57 

Rhymes op ^aiky Days 

The Tree-Toad 79 

A Worn-Out Pencil . . . ; 80 

The Stepmother 82 

The Rain 83 

The Legend Glorified 84 

Whur Mother Is 85 

Old Man's Nursery Rhyme 86 

Three Dead Friends 88 

In Bohemia 91 

In the Dark 93 

Wet- Weather Talk 94 

Where Shall we Land 9g 

(vii) 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 101 

SWEBT-I^NOIII AND (©ALAMUS 

An Old Sweetheart 159 

Makthy Ellen 161 

Moon-Drowned 163 

Long Afore He Knowed 164 

Dear Hands 166 

This Man Jones 167 

To My Good Master 169 

When the Green Gits Back 170 

At Broad Ripple 171 

When Old Jack Died 172 

Doc SiFERS 174 

At Noon— And Midnight 177 

A WILD IRISHMAN 181 

FJAGWBED AND FENNEL 

When My Dreams Come True .205 

A Dos'T o' Blues 206 

The Bat 208 

The Way it Wuz 209 

The Drum 212 

Tom Johnson 's Quit 214 

Lullaby 216 

In the South 217 

The Old Home by the Mill 219 

A Leave-Taking 221 

Wait for the Morning 222 

When June is Here 223 

THE GILDED ROLL 227 



Pipes 0^ Pat) at Zekesburij 



The 



HE PIPES OF PAN! Not idler now are they 
Than when their cunning fashioner first blew 
The pith of music from them: Yet for you 
And me their notes are blown in many a way 
Lost in our murmurings for that old day 
That fared so well without us. — Waken to 
The pipings here at hand: — The clear halloo 
Of truant- voices, and the roundelay 
The waters warble in the solitude 
Of blooming thickets, where the robin's breast 
Sends up such ecstacy o'er dale and dell, 
Each tree top answers, till in all the wood 
There lingers not one squirrel in his nest 
Whetting his hunger on an empty shell. 



AT ZEKESBURY. 

HE little town, as I recall it, was of just 
enough dignity and dearth of the same to 
be an ordinary county seat in Indiana — "The 
Grand Old Hoosier State," as it was used to 
being howlingly referred to by the forensic 
stump orator from the old stand in the court- 
house yard — a political campaign being the 
wildest delight that Zekesbury might ever 
hope to call its own. 

Through years the fitful happenings of the 
town and its vicinity went on the same — the 
same ! Annually about one circus ventured 
in, and vanished, and was gone, even as a 
passing trumpet-blast ; the usual rainy-season 
swelled the " Crick, '^ the driftage choking at 
" the covered bridge,^' and backing water till 
the old road looked amphibious ; and crowds 
of curious townsfolk straggled down to look 
upon the watery wonder, and lean awe-struck 
above it, and spit in it, and turn mutely home 
again. 

The usual formula of incidents peculiar to an 
uneventful town and its vicinity : The coun- 
tryman from ''Jessup's Crossing," with th^ 
(13) 



14 AT ZEKESBURY. 

cornstalk coffin-measure, loped into town, his 
steaming little gray-and-red-flecked '* road- 
ster " gurgitating, as it were, with that myste- 
rious utterance that ever has commanded and 
ever must evoke the wonder and bewilderment 
of every boy. The small-pox rumor became 
prevalent betimes, and the subtle aroma of the 
assafoetida-bag permeated the graded schools 
''from turret to foundation-stone;" the still 
recurring expose of the poor-house manage- 
ment; the farm-hand, with the scythe across 
his shoulder, struck dead by lightning ; the 
long-drawn quarrel between the rival editors 
culminating in one of them assaulting the other 
with a " sidestick," and the other kicking the 
one down stairs and thenceward adlibitum; 
the tramp, suppositiously stealing a ride, found 
dead on the railroad ; the grand jury returning 
a sensational indictment against a bar-tender 
non est; the Temperance outbreak ; the " Re- 
vival ; " the Church Festival ; and the '* Free 
Lectures on Phrenology, and Marvels of Mes- 
merism," at the town hall. It was during the 
time of the last-mentioned sensation, and di- 
rectly through this scientific investigation, that 
I came upon two of the town's most remarka- 
ble characters. And however meager my 
outline of them may prove, my material for 
the sketch is most accurate in every detail, 



AT ZEKESBURY. 1 5 

and no deviation from the cold facts of the 
case shall influence any line of my report. 

For some years prior to this odd experience 
I had been connected with a daily paper at 
the state capitol ; and latterly a prolonged 
session of the legislature, where I specially 
reported, having told threateningly upon my 
health, I took both the advantage of a brief 
vacation, and the invitation of a young bach- 
elor Senator, to get out of the city for awhile, 
and bask my respiratory organs in the reviv- 
ifying rural air of Zekesbury — the home of 
my new friend, 

''It'll pay you to get out here," he said, 
cordially, meeting me at the little station, 
'/ and I 'm glad you 've come, for you '11 find 
no end of odd characters to amuse you." And 
under the very pleasant sponsorship of my sen- 
atorial friend, I was placed at once on genial 
terms with half the citizens of the little town — 
from the shirt-sleeved nabob of the county 
office to the droll wag of the favorite loafing- 
place — the rules and by-laws of which resort, 
by the way, being rudely charcoaled on the 
wall above the cutter's bench, and somewhat 
artistically culminating in an original dialectic 
legend which ran thus : 

F'rinstance, now whar so7ne folks gits 
To reljin' on their wits. 



1 6 AT ZEKESBURY. 

Ten to one thej git too smart, 

And spile it all right at the start! — 

Feller wants to jest go slow 

And do his thinkin'' first, you know: — 

Ef I can't think up somepin' good, 

I set still and chaw my cood! 

And it was at this inviting rendezvous, two 
or three evenings following my arrival, that 
the general crowd, acting upon the random 
proposition of one of the boys, rose as a man 
and wended its hilarious way to the town 
hall. 

''Phrenology," said the little, old, bald- 
headed lecturer and mesmerist, thumbing the 
egg-shaped head of a young man I remem- 
bered to have met that afternoon in some law 
office ; ''Phrenology," repeated the professor — 
"or rather the term phrenology — is derived 
from two Greek words signifying mind and dis- 
course; hence we find embodied in phrenology- 
proper, the science of intellectual measure- 
ment, together with the capacity of intelligent 
communication of the varying mental forces 
and their flexibilities, etc., &c. The study, 
then, of phrenology is, to wholly simplify it — is, 
I say, the general contemplation of the work- 
ings of the mind as made manifest through 
the certain corresponding depressions and 
protuberances of the human skull, when, of 
course, in a healthy state of action and devel- 



AT ZEKESBURY. 1 7 

opment, as we here find the conditions exem- 
plified in the subject before us." 

Here the " subject" vaguely smiled. 

''You recognize that mug, don't you?" 
whispered my friend. '' It 's that coruscating 
young ass, you know, Hedrick — in Cummings' 
office — trying to study law and literature at the 
same time, and tampering with ' The Monster 
that Annually,' don't you know?-— where we 
found the two young students scuffling round 
the office, and smelling of peppermint? — Hed- 
rick, you know, and Sweeney. Sweeney, the 
slim chap, with the pallid face, and frog-eyes, 
and clammy hands ! You remember I told you 
' there was a pair of 'em? ' Well, they 're up 
to something here to-night. Hedrick, there on 
the stage in front ; and Sweeney — don't you 
see? — with the gang on the rear seats." 

''Phrenology — again," continued the lect- 
urer, "is, we may say, a species of mental 
geography, as it were ; which — by a study of 
the skull — leads also to a study of the brain 
within, even as geology naturally follows the 
initial contemplation of the earth's surface. 
The brain, thurfur, or intellectual retort, as we 
may say, natively exerts a molding influence 
on the skull contour ; thurfur is the expert in 
phrenology most readily enabled to accurately 
locate the multitudinous intellectual forces, and 
2 



1 8 AT ZEKESBURY. 

most exactingly estimate^ as well, the sequent 
character of each subject submitted to his 
scrutiny. As, in the example before us — a 
young man, doubtless well known in your 
midst, though, I may say, an entire stranger 
to myself — I venture to disclose some charac- 
teristic trends and tendencies, as indicated 
by this phrenological depression and develop- 
ment of the skull-proper, as later we will 
show, through the mesmeric condition, the 
accuracy of our mental diagnosis." 

Throughout the latter part of this speech my 
friend nudged me spasmodically, whispering 
something which was jostled out of intelligent 
utterance by some inward spasm of laughter. 

''In this head," said the Professor, strad- 
dling his malleable fingers across the young 
man's bumpy brow — ''In this head we find 
Ideality large — abnormally large, in fact; 
thurby indicating — taken in conjunction with 
a like development of the perceptive quali- 
ties — language following, as well, in the prom- 
inent eye — thurby indicating, I say, our subject 
as especially endowed with a love for the 
beautiful — the sublime — the elevating— the re- 
fined and delicate — the lofty and superb — in 
nature, and in all the sublimated attributes of 
the human heart and beatific soul. In fact, 
we find this young man possessed of such 



AT ZEKESBURY. 1 9 

natural gifts as would befit him for the exalted 
career of the sculptor, the actor, the artist, or 
the poet — any ideal calling ; in fact, any call- 
ing but a practical, matter-of-fact vocation ; 
though in poetry he would seem to best suc- 
ceed." 

''Well," said my friend, seriously, ''he's 
feeling for the boy!" Then laughingly: 
" Hedrick has written some rhymes for the 
county papers, and Sweeney once introduced 
him, at an Old Settlers' Meeting, as 'The 
Best Poet in Center Township,' and never 
cracked a smile ! Always after each other 
that way, but the best friends in the world. 
Sweeney's strong suit is elocution. He has a 
native ability that way by no means ordinary, 
but even that gift he abuses and distorts 
simply to produce grotesque, and oftentimes 
ridiculous eflFects. For instance, nothing more 
delights him than to ' lothfuUy ' consent to 
answer a request, at The Mite Society, some 
evening, for 'an appropriate selection,' and 
then, with an elaborate introduction of the 
same, and an exalted tribute to the refined 
genius of the author, proceed with a most 
gruesome rendition of 'Alonzo The Brave and 
The Fair Imogene,' in a way to coagulate the 
blood and curl the hair of his fair listeners 
with abject terror. Pale as a corpse, you 



20 AT ZEKESBURY. 

know, and with that cadaverous face, lit with 
those mahgnant-looking eyes, his slender fig- 
ure, and his long, thin legs and arms and 
hands, and his whole diabolical talent and 
adroitness brought into play — why, I want to 
say to you, it 's enough to scare 'em to death ! 
Never a smile from him, though, till he and 
Hedrick are safe out into the night again — 
then, of course, they hug each other and howl 
over it like Modocs ! But pardon ; I 'm inter- 
rupting the lecture. Listen." 

"A lack of continuity, however," continued 
the Professor, " and an undue love of appro- 
bation, would, measurably, at least, tend to 
retard the young man's progress toward the 
consummation of any loftier ambition, I fear ; 
yet as we have intimated, if the subject were 
appropriately educated to the need's demand, 
he could doubtless produce a high order of 
both prose and poetry — especially the latter — 
though he could very illy bear being laughed 
at for his pains." 

'' He 's dead wrong there," said my friend ; 
" Hedrick enjoys being laughed at ; he 's used 
to it — gets fat on it ! " 

'' Is fond of his friends," continued the Pro- 
fessor " and the heartier they are the better; 
might even be convivially inclined — if so 
tempted — but prudent — in a degree," loiter- 



AT 2EKESBURY. 21 

ingly concluded the speaker, as though un- 
able to find the exact bump with which to 
bolster up the last named attribute. 

The subject blushed vividly — my friend's 
right eyelid dropped, and there was a notice- 
able, though elusive sensation throughout the 
audience. 

"But!'''' said the Professor, explosively, 
" selecting a directly opposite subject, in con- 
junction with the study of the one before us 
[turning to the group at the rear of the stage 
and beckoning], we may find a newer interest 
in the practical comparison of these subjects 
side by side." And the Professor pushed a 
very pale young man into position. 

" Sweeney ! " whispered my friend, delight- 
edly ; " now look out ! " 

" In this subject," said the Professor, *^ we 
find the practical business head. Square — 
though small — a trifle light at the base, in fact ; 
but well balanced at the important points at 
least ; thoughtful eyes — wide-awake — crafty — 
quick — restless — a policy eye, though not de- 
noting language — unless, perhaps, mere busi- 
ness forms and direct statements." 

"Fooled again!" whispered my friend; 
" and I 'm afraid the old man will fail to nest 
out the fact also that Sweeney is the cold- 
bloodedest guyer on the face of the earth, and 



22 AT ZEKESBURY. 

with more diabolical resources than a prose- 
cuting attorney ; the Professor ought to know 
this, too, by this time — for these same two 
chaps have been visiting the old man in his 
room at the hotel ; — that 's what I was trying 
to tell you awhile ago. The old sharp thinks 
he ^s ' playing ' the boys, is my idea ; but it 's 
the other way, or I lose my guess." 

"Now, under the mesmeric influence — if 
the two subjects will consent to its administra- 
tion,^^ said the Professor, after some further 
tedious preamble, " we may at once determine 
the fact of my assertions, as will be proved by 
their action while in this peculiar state." Here 
some apparent remonstrance was met with 
from both subjects, though amicably overcome 
by the Professor first manipulating the stolid 
brow and pallid front of the imperturbable 
Sweeney — after which the same mysterious 
ordeal was lothfully submitted to by Hedrick — 
though a noticeably longer time was consumed 
in securing his final loss of self-control. At 
last, however, this curious phenomenon w^as 
presented, and there before us stood the two 
swaying figures, the heads dropped back, the 
lifted hands, with thumb and finger-tips pressed 
lightly together, the e3^elids languid and half 
closed, and the features, in appearance, wan 
and humid. 



AT 2:EKESBURY. 2 J 

*' Now, sir!" said the Professor, leading 
the limp Sweeney forward, and addressing 
him in a quick, sharp tone of voice. — " Now, 
sir, you are a great contractor — own large 
factories, and with untold business interests. 
Just look out there ! [pointing out across the 
expectant audience] look there, and see the 
countless minions toib'ng servilely at your 
dread mandates. And yet— ha ! ha! See! 
see !— They recognize the avaricious greed 
that would thus grind them in the very dust ; 
they see, alas ! they see themselves half- 
clothed — half-fed, that you may glut your cof- 
fers. Half-starved, they listen to the w^ail of 
wife and babe, and, with eyes upraised in 
prayer, they see jk<^^/ rolling by in gilded coach, 
and swathed in silk attire. But — ha ! again ! 
Look — look ! they are rising in revolt against 
you ! Speak to them before too late ! Appeal 
to them — quell them with the promise of the 
just advance of wages they demand ! ^^ 

The limp figure of Sweeney took on some- 
thing of a stately and majestic air. With a 
graceful and commanding gesture of the hand, 
he advanced a step or two ; then, after a pause 
of some seconds duration, in which the lifted 
face grew paler, as it seemed, and the eyes a 
denser black, he said : 



i^ AT ZEKESBURY. 

" But yesterday 
I looked away 

O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay 
In golden blots, 
Inlaid with spots 
Of shade and wild forget-me-nots." 

The voice was low, but clear, and ever 
musical. The Professor started at the strange 
utterance, looked extremely confused, and, as 
the boisterous crowd cried " Hear, hear ! " he 
motioned the subject to continue, with some 
gasping comment interjected, which, if aud- 
ible, would have run thus : " My God ! It 's 
an inspirational poem ! " 

" My head was fair 
With flaxen hair " 

resumed the subject. 

'' Yoop-ee!" yelled an irreverent auditor. 

*' Silence! silence!" commanded the ex- 
cited Professor in a hoarse whisper ; then, 
turning enthusiastically to the subject — ''Go 
on, young man! Go on! — ' Z%y /zead was 
fair with flaxen hair ' " 



" My head was fair 
With flaxen hair, 

And fragrant breezes, faint and rare, 
And warm with drouth 
From out the south, 
Blew all my curls across my mouth." 



AT ZEKESBURY. 2$ 

The speaker's voice, exquisitely modulated, 
yet resonant as the twang of a harp, now 
seemed of itself to draw and hold each list- 
ener ; while a certain extravagance of gestic- 
ulation — a fantastic movement of both form 
and feature — seemed very near akin to fas- 
cination. And so flowed on the curious 
utterance : 

" And, cool and sweet, 
My naked feet 

Found dewy pathways through the wheat; 
And out again 
Where, down the lane. 
The dust was dimpled with the rain." 

In the pause following there was a breath- 
lessness almost painful. The poem went on : 

" But yesterday 
I heard the lay 

Of summer birds, when I, as they 
With breast and wing. 
All quivering 
With life and love, could only sing. 

*' My head was leant. 
Where, with it, blent 
A maiden's, o 'er her instrument; 
While all the night. 
From vale to height. 
Was filled with echoes of delight. 

" And all our dreams 
Were lit with gleams 



26 AT ZEKESBURY. 

Of that lost land of reedj streams^ 

Along whose bnm 

Forever swim 

Pan's lilies, laughing up at him.'* 

And still the inspired singer held rapt sway. 

"It is wonderful!" I whispered, under 
breath. 

"Of course it is!" answered my friend. 
" But listen ; there is more : " 

"But yesterday! .... 
O blooms of May, 
And summer roses — -Where-away.? 
O stars above; 
And lips of love, 
And all the honeyed sweets thereof! 

"O lad and lass, 
And orchard-pass, 
And briared lane, and daisied grass! 
O gleam and gloom, 
And woodland bloom. 
And breezy breaths of all perfume! — 

" No more for me 
Or mine shall be 

Thy raptures —save in memory, — 
No more — no more — 
Till through the Door 
Of Glory gleam the days of yore." 

This was the evident conclusion of the re- 
markable utterance, and the Professor was 
impetuously fluttering his hands about the 



AT ZEKESBURY. 2*] 

subject's upward-staring eyes, stroking his 
temples, and snapping his fingers in his face. 

''Well," said Sweeney, as he stood sud- 
denly awakened, and grinning in an idiotic 
way, " how did the old thing work?" Audit 
was in the consequent hilarity and loud and 
long applause, perhaps, that the Professor was 
relieved from the explanation of this rather 
astounding phenomenon of the idealistic work- 
ings of a purely practical brain — or, as my 
impious friend scoffed the incongruity later, 
in a particularly withering allusion, as the 
''blank-blanked fallacy, don't you know, of 
staying the hunger of a howling mob by feed- 
ing 'em on Spring poetry ! " 

The tumult of the audience did not cease 
even with the retirement of Sweeney, and 
cries of " Hedrick ! Hedrick ! " only subsided 
with the Professor's high-keyed announce- 
ment that the subject was even then endeav- 
oring to make himself heard, but could not 
until utter quiet was restored, adding the fur- 
ther appeal that the young man had already 
been a long time under the mesmeric spell, and 
ought not be so detained for an unnecessary 
period. " See," he concluded, with an as- 
suring wave of the hand toward the subject, 
"see; he is about to address you. Now, 
quiet ! — utter quiet, if you please ! " 



28 AT ZEKESBURY. 

"Great heavens!" exclaimed my friend, 
stiflingly ; "Just look at the boy! Get onto 
that position for a poet ! Even Sweeney has 
fled from the sight of him ! ^^ 

And truly, too, it was a grotesque pose the 
young man had assumed ; not wholly ridicu- 
lous either, since the dwarfed position he had 
settled into seemed more a genuine physical 
condition than an affected one. The head, 
back-tilted, and sunk between the shoulders, 
looked abnormally large, while the features 
of the face appeared peculiarly child-like — 
especially the eyes — wakeful and wide apart, 
and very bright, yet very mild and very art- 
less ; and the drawn and cramped outline of 
the legs and feet, and of the arms and hands, 
even to the shrunken, slender-looking fingers, 
all combined to most strikingly convey to the 
pained senses the fragile frame and pixey 
figure of some pitiably afflicted child, uncon- 
scious altogether of the pathos of its own de- 
formity. 

"Now, mark the kuss, Horatio!" gasped 
my friend. 

At first the speaker's voice came very low, 
and somewhat piping, too, and broken — an 
eerie sort of voice it was, of brittle and erratic 
timbre and undulant inflection. Yet it was 
beautiful. It had the ring of childhood in it, 



AT ZEKESBURY. 29 

though the ring was not pure golden, and at 
times fell echoless. The spirit of its utter- 
ance was always clear and pure and crisp 
and cheery as the twitter of a bird, and yet 
forever ran an undercadence through it like a 
low-pleading prayer. Half garrulously, and 
like a shallow brook might brawl across a 
shelvy bottom, the rhythmic little changeling 
thus began : 

" I 'm thist a little crippled boy, an' never goin' to grow 
An' git a great big man at all! — 'cause Aunty told me so. 
When I was thist a baby onc't I failed out of the bed 
An' got ' The Curv'ture of the Spine ' — 'at 's what the 

Doctor said. 
I never had no Mother nen— fer my Pa runned away 
An' dass n't come back here no more — 'cause he was 

drunk one day 
An' stobbed a man in thish-ere town, an' could n't pay 

his fine! 
An' nen my Ma she died — an' I got 'Curv'ture of the 

Spine!'" 

A few titterings from the younger people 
in the audience marked the opening stanza, 
while a certain restlessness, and a changing 
to more attentive positions seemed the general 
tendency. The old Professor, in the mean- 
time, had sunk into one of the empty chairs. 
The speaker went on with more gaiety ^ 

"I'm nine years old! An' you can't guess how much I 
weigh, I bet! — 



30 AT ZEKESBURY. 

Last birthday I weighed thirty-three! — An' I weigh 

thirty yet ! 
I 'm awful little fer my size — I 'm purt' nigh littler 'an 
Some babies is ! — an' neighbors all calls me ' The Little 

Man!' 
An' Doc one time he laughed an' said: 'I 'spect, first 

thing you know, 
You '11 have a little spike-tail coat an' travel with a 

show!' 
An' nen I laughed — till I looked round an' Aunty was 

a-cryin' — 
Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got ' Curv'ture of 

the Spine!'" 

Just in front of me a great broad-shouldered 
countryman, with a rainy smell in his cum- 
brous overcoat, cleared his throat vehemently, 
looked startled at the sound, and again set- 
tled forward, his weedy chin resting on the 
knuckles of his hands as they tightly clutched 
the seat before him. And it was like being 
taken into a childish confidence as the quaint 
speech continued : 

"I set — while Aunty's washin' — on my little long-leg 

stool. 
An' watch the little boys an' girls 'a-skippin' by to 

school; 
An' I peck on the winder, an' holler out an' say: 
* Who wants to fight The Little Man 'at dares you all 

to-day?' 
An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little girls 

peeks through. 
An' they all says: 'Cause you're so big, you think 

we 're 'feared o' you!' 



AT ZEKESBURY. 3 1 

An' nen they jell, an' shake their fist at me, like I shake 

mine— 
They 're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I got * Curv'ture 

of the Spine!'" 

'* Well," whispered my friend, with rather 
odd irrelevance, I thought, ''of course you 
see through the scheme of the fellows by this 
time, do n't you?" 

"I see nothing," said I, most earnestly, 
"but a poor little wisp of a child that makes 
me love him so I dare not think of his dying 
soon, as he surely must! There; listen!" 
And the plaintive gaiety of the homely poem 
ran on : 

" At evening, when the ironin 's done, an' Aunty 's fixed 

the fire, 
An' filled an' lit the lamp, an' trimmed the wick an' 

turned it higher, 
An' fetched the wood all in fer night, an' locked the 

kitchen door, 
An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows in up 

through the floor^ — 
She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles an' makes the 

tea. 
An' fries the liver an' the mush, an' cooks a egg fer me; 
An' sometimes — when I cough so hard — her elderberry 

wine 
Don't go so bad fer little boys with ' Curv'ture of the 

Spine!'" 

''Look!" whispered my friend, touching 
me with his elbow. " Look at the Professor I " 



32 AT ZEKESBURY. 

''Look at everybody!" said I. And the 
artless little voice went on again half quaver- 
ingly : 

"But Aunty 's all so childish-like on my account, you see, 
I 'm 'most afeared she '11 be took down — an' 'at 's what 

bothers me I — 
'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would git sick an' die, 
I don't know what she 'd do in Heaven — till / come, by 

an' by: — 
Fer she 's so ust to all my ways, an' ever'thing, you 

know, 
An' no one there like me, to nurse, an' worry over so! — 
'Cause all the little childerns there 's so straight an' strong 

an' fine. 
They 's nary angel 'bout the place with * Curv'ture of 

the Spine!'" 

The old Professor's face was in his hand- 
kerchief: so was my friend's in his; and so 
was mine in mine, as even now my pen drops 
and I reach for it again. 

I half regret joining the mad party that had 
gathered an hour later in the old law-office 
where these two graceless characters held 
almost nightly revel, the instigators and con- 
niving hosts of a reputed banquet whose 
menu's range confined itself to herrings, or 
''blind robins," dried beef, and cheese, with 
crackers, gingerbread, and sometimes pie; 
the whole washed down with anything but 



AT ZEKESBURY. 33 

« -Wines that heaven knows when 

Had sucked the fire of some forgotten sun, 
And kept it through a hundred years of gloom 
Still glowing in a heart of ruby.'' 

But the affair was memorable. The old 
Professor was himself lured into it, and loud- 
est in his praise of Hedrick's realistic art ; and 
I yet recall him at the orgie^s height, excit- 
edly repulsing the continued slurs and insinu- 
ations of the clammy-handed Sweeney, who, 
still contending against the old man^s fulsome 
praise of his more fortunate rival, at last openly 
declared that Hedrick was not a poet, not a 
genius, and in no way worthy to be classed 
in the same breath with himself—''' the gifted 
but unfortunate Sweeney^ sir — the unacknowl- 
edged author, sir — 'y gad, sir! — of the two 
poems that held you spell-bound to-night ! " 
3 



X)owt) ^rout)d i})c Piver poenjs 



DOWN AROUND THE RIVER. 

l^^O O N - T I M E and June-time, down around the 
(^^ ^ river! 

Have to furse with 'Lizey Ann — but lawzy! I fergive her! 
Drives me off the place, and says 'at all 'at she 's a-wishin', 
Land o' gracious! time '11 come I '11 git enough o' fishin'! 
Little Dave, a-choppin' wood, never 'pears to notice; 
Don't know where she 's hid his hat, er keerin' where his 

coat is, — 
Specalatin', more 'n like, he haint a-goin' to mind me. 
And guessin' where, say twelve o'clock, a feller 'd likely 

find me. 

Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! 
Clean out o' sight o' home, and skulkin' under kivver 
Of the sycamores, jack-oaks, and swamp-ash and ellum — 
Idles all so jumbled up, you kin hardly tell 'em! — 
Tired^ you know, but lovhi' it, and smilin' jest to think 'at 
Any sweeter tiredness you 'd fairly want to drink it. 
Tired o' fishin' — tired o' fun — line out slack and slacker — 
All you want in all the world 's a little more tobacker! 

Hungry, but a-hidin' it, er jes' a-not a-keerin': — 
Kingfisher gittin' up and skootin' out o' hearin'; 
Snipes on the t'other side, where the County Ditch is, 
Wadin' up and down the aidge like they 'd rolled their 

britches ! 
Old turkle on the root kindo-sorto drappin' 
Intoo th' worter like he do n't know how it happen! 
Worter, shade and all so mixed, do n't know which you 'd 

orter 
Say, th' worter in the shaddcr — sh adder in the ivortcr! 
(37) 



38 DOWN AROUND THE RIVER. 

Somebody hollerin' — 'way around the bend in 
Upper Fork— where yer eye kin jes' ketch the endin' 
Of the shiney wedge o' wake some muss-rat's a-makin' 
With that pesky nose o' his! Then a sniif o' bacon, 
Corn-bread and 'dock-greens — and little Dave a-shinnin' 
'Crost the rocks and mussel-shells, a-limpin' and a-grinnin', 
With yer dinner fer ye, and a blessin' from the giver. 
Noon-time and June-time down around the river! 



^ 



KNEELING WITH HERRICK. 

EAR LORD, to Thee my knee is bent.- 

Give me content — 
Full-pleasured with what comes to me, 

What e'er it be: 
An humble roof - a frugal board, 

And simple hoard; 
The wintry fagot piled beside 

The chimney wide, 
While the enwreathing flames up-sprout 

And twine about 
The brazen dogs that guard my hearth 

And household worth: 
Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow 

The rafters low; 
And let the sparks snap with delight. 

As fingers might 
That mark deft measures of some tune 

The children croon: 
Then, with good friends, the rarest few 

Thou boldest true. 
Ranged round about the blaze, to share 

My comfort there, — 
Give me to claim the service meet 

That makes each seat 
A place of honor, and each guest 

Loved as the rest. 
(39) 



ROMANCIN'. 



I' B'EN a-kindo musin', as the feller says, and I 'm 
About o' the conclusion that they ain't no better time, 
When you come to cipher on it, than the times we used to 

know 
When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto solem'-like 
and low! 

You git my idy, do you? - Little tads, j^ou understand — 
Jes' a wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y was a 7nan. — 
Yit here I am, this minute, even forty, to a day. 
And fergittin' all that 's in it, wishin' jes' the other way! 

I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate 
Whur the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate, — 
But when I git so flurried, and so pestered -like and blue, 
And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do! — » 

I jes' gee-haw the bosses, and unhook the swingle-tree, 
Whur the hazel-bushes tosses down their shadders over 

me. 
And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and set 
Jes' a-thinkin' here, 'y gravy! till my eyes is wringin'-wet! 

Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the present, I kin see — 
Kindo like my sight was double — all the things that used 

to he; 
And the flutter o' the robin, and the teeter o' the wren 
Sets the wilier branches bobbin "howdy-do" thum Now 

to Then! 
The deadnin' and the thicket's jes' a bilin' full of June, 
Thum the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's tune; 

(40) 



ROMANCIN . 41 

And the catbird in the bottom, and the sap-suck on the 

snag, 
Seems ef thej cain't — od-rot'em! — jes'do nothin' else but 

brag! 

They 's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay, 
And that sassy little critter jes' a-peckin' all the day; 
They 's music in the " flicker," and they 's music in the 

thrush. 
And they 's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the 

brush ! 

They 's music all around me ! — And I go back, in a dream — 
Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep — and in the 

stream 
That used to split the medder whur the dandylions growed, 
I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the 

road. 

Then's when I* b'en a-fishin'! — and they 's other fellers, 

too. 
With their hickry poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and a 

few 
Little " shiners" on our stringers, with their tails tiptoein' 

bloom. 
As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy journey home. 

I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out 
With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout!" 
I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam. 
And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern of the dam. 

I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill; 
And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growlin' 

still; 
And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe, 
And jes' git in and row it like the miller used to do. 



42 ROMANCIN . 

W'j, I git my fancy focus&ed on the past so mortal plain 
I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane; 
And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n "money 

musk " 
Fer the lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin'and a-dancin'in the dusk. 

And so I keep on musin', as the feller says, till I'm 

Firm -fixed in the conclusion that they hain't no better 

time, 
When you come to cipher on it, than the old times, — and, 

I swear, 
I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it!" jes' as soft as any 

prayer ! 



m: 



HAS SHE FORGOTTEN. 



AS SHE forgotten? On this very May 

We were to meet here, with the birds and bees, 
As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees 
We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away 
The vines from these old granites, cold and gray — 
And yet, indeed, not grim enough were they 
To stay our kisses, smiles and ecstacies, 
Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies. 
Has she forgotten — that the May has won 
Its promise?— -that the bird -songs from the tree 
Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun 
Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly? 
Has she forgotten life — love — everyone — 
Has she forgotten me — forgotten me? 



Low, low down in the violets I press 
My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear, 
And yet hold silence, though I call her dear, 
Just as of old, save for the tearfulness 
Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress? 
Has she forgotten thus the old caress 
That made our breath a quickened atmosphere 
That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer 
Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap 
Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly 
As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep 
In memory of days that used to be, — 
Has she forgotten these? And, in her sleep, 
Has she forgotten me — forgotten me? 
(43) 



44 HAS SHE FORGOTTEN. 



III. 
To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes, 
I mean to weld our faces — through the dense 
Incalculable darkness make pretense 
That she has risen from her reveries 
To mate her dreams with mine in marriages 
Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease 
Of every longirig nerve of indolence, — 
Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun 
My senses with her kisses — drawl the glee 
Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly, 
Across mine own, forgetful if is done 
The old love's awful dawn-time when said we, 
^To-day is ours !" . . . . Ah, Heaven ! can it be 
She has forgotten me — forgotten me ! 



A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG. 



[T 'S THE curiousest thing in creation, 
Whenever I hear that old song, 
■'Do They Miss Me at Home?" I 'm so bothered, 
My life seems as short as it 's long! — 
Fer ever'thing 'pears like adzackly 

It 'peared, in the j^ears past and gone, — ■ 
When I started out sparkin', at twenty, 
And had my first neckercher on! 

Though I 'm wrinkelder, older and grayer 

Right now than my parents was then, 
You strike up that song, "Do They Miss Me?" 

And I 'm jest a youngster again! — 
I 'm a-standin' back there in the furries 

A-wishin' fer evening to come, 
And a-whisperin' over and over 

Them words, " Do They Miss Me at Home?'* 

You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it 

The first time I heerd it; and so. 
As she was my very first sweetheart, 

It reminds of her, do n't you know, — - 
How her face ust to look, in the twilight, 

As I tuck her to spellin'; and she 
Kep' a-hummin' that song 'tel I ast her, 

Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me! 

I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it, 
And hear her low answerin' words, 

And then the glad chirp of the crickets 
As clear as the twitter of birds; 
(45) 



46 a' old played-out song. 

And the dust in the road is like velvet, 
And the ragweed, and fennel, and grass 

Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies 
Of Eden of old, as we pass. 

"Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower — 

And softer — and sweet as the breeze 
That powdered our path with the snowy 

White bloom of the old locus'-trees! 
Let the whippoorwills he'p you to sing it, 

And the echoes 'way over the hill, 
'Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus 

Of stars, and our voices is still. 

But, oh! " They 's a chord in the music 

That's missed when her voice is away!'' 
Though I listen from midnight 'tel morning, 

And dawn, 'tel the dusk of the day; 
And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards 

And on through the heavenly dome. 
With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin' 

The words, " Do They Miss Me at Home? *' 



THE LOST PATH. 

ALONE the J walked — their fingers knit together^ 
^And swaying listlessly as might a swing 
Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather 
Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring. 

Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket 

Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane, 

And from the covert of the hazel-thicket 

The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again. 

The bumble-bee that tipped the iiiy -vases 

Along the road-side in the shadows dim, 
Went following the blossoms of their faces 

As though their sweets must needs be shared with him. 

Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle 
Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells 

Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle 
Fell swooningly away in faint farewells. 

And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er them, 
And folded all the landscape from their eyes, 

They only know the dusky path before them 
Was leading safely on to Paradise. 



(47) 



THE LITTLE TINY KICKSHAW. 

" — And afiy little tiny kickshaws.''^ — Shakespeare. 

OTHE LITTLE tiny kickshaw that Mither sent 
tae me, 
'Tis sweeter than the sugar-plum that reepens on the tree, 
Wr dentj flavorin's o^ spice an' musky rosemarie, 
The little tinj kickshaw that Mither sent tae me. 

'Tis luscious wi' the stalen tang o' fruits frae ower the sea, 
An' e'en its fragrance gars we laugh wi' langin' lip an' ee. 
Till a' its frazen sheen o' white maun melten hinnie be — 
Sae weel I luve the kickshaw that Mither sent tae me. 

O I luve the tiny kickshaw, an' I smack my lips wi' glee, 
Aye mickle do I luve the taste o' sic a luxourie, 
But maist I luve the luvein' han's that could the giftie gie 
O' the little tiny kickshaw that Mither sent tae me. 



(4S) 



^ 



HIS MOTHER. 

EAD! my wayward boy — my own-~^ 
Not the Law'' si but 7nine — the good 
God's free gift to me alone, 
Sanctified by motherhood. 

'Bad," you say: Well, who is not.? 
' Brutal " — " with a heart of stone " — 

And "red-handed." — Ah! the hot 

Blood upon your own! 

I come not, with downward eyes, 
To plead for him shamedly, — 
God did not apologize 
When He gave the boy to me. 

Simply, I make ready now 
For H^^ verdict. — Ton prepare — - 
You have killed us both — and how 
Will you face us There! 



(49) 



o 



KISSING THE ROD. 

HEART of mine, we should n't 

Worry so! 
What we 've missed of calm we could r* 

Have, you know! 
What we 've met of stormy pain, 
And of sorrow's driving rain, 
We can better meet again, 

If it blow! 

We have erred in that dark hour 

We have known, 
When our tears fell with the shower, 

All alone! — 
Were not shine and shadow blent 
As the gracious Master meant? — 
Let us temper our content 

With His own. 

For, we know, not every morrow 

Can be sad; 
So, forgetting all the sorrow 

We have had. 
Let us fold away our fears, 
And put by our foolish tears. 
And through all the coming years 

Just be glad. 



(50) 



HOW IT HAPPENED. 

I GOT to thinkin' of her — both her parents dead and 
gone— ~ 
And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John 
A-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way, 
And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day ! 
I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from 

the time 
He settled in the neighborhood, and had n't ary a dime 
Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on! — 
So I got to thinkin' of her — both her parents dead and 

gone! 

I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done 
That all her sisters kep' a gittin' married, one by one. 
And her without no chances — and the best girl of the 

pack — 
An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind 

her back! 
And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on. 
When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and 

John, 
And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be 

bline 
To not see what a wife they 'd git if they got Evaline ! 

I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction she 

Was sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly, — 

She 'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out 

little Jane, 
And talk of her own mother 'at she 'd never see again — 
Maybe sometimes cry together — though, fer the most part 

she 

(50 



52 HOW IT HAPPENED. 

Would have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at we 
Felt lonesomer 'n ever when she 'd put her bonnet on 
And say she 'd raillj haf to be a-gittin' back to John! 

I got to thinkin' of her, as I say, — and more and more 
1 'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore, — 
Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone 
And married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John — 
You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life 
Fer a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife — 
'Less some one married Evaline, and packed her off some 

day!— 
So I got to thinkin' of her — and it happened thataway. 



BABYHOOD. 

^j^[TEIGH-HO! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger: 
-^1 ^Let 's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; 
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger 
Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away. 

Turn back the leaves of life; do n't read the story, — 
Let's find the pictures^ and fancy all the rest: — 

We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory 
Than Old Time, the story-teller, at his very best! 

Turn to the brook, where the honeysuckle, tipping 
O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze. 

And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping 
From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust trees. 

Turn to the lane, where we used to " teeter-totter," 
Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold, 

Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water 

Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold: 

Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel 

Of the sunny sandbar in the middle-tide. 
And the ghostly dragonfly pauses in his travel 

To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died. 

Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger: 
Let 's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; 

Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger 
Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away. 



(S3) 



THE DAYS GONE BY. 

OTHE DAYS gone by! O the days gone by! 
The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through 
the rye; 
The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail 
As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale; 
When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in 

the sky, 
And my happy heart brimmed over in the days gone by. 

In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped 
By the honey-suckle's tangles where the water-lilies 

dipped, 
And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink 
Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to 

drink. 
And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant's way- 
ward cry 
And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by. 

O the days gone by ! O the days gone by ! 
The music of the laughing lip, the luster of the eye; 
The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin's magic ring — 
The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in everything, — 
When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh, 
In the golden olden glory of the days gone by. 



(54) 



JVtrs. jHiHcr 



MRS. MILLER. 

JOHN B. Mc KINNEY, Attorney and 
Counselor at Law, as his sign read, was, 
for many reasons, a fortunate man. For many 
other reasons he was not. He was chiefly for- 
tunate in being, as certain opponents often 
strove to witheringly designate him, ''the son 
of his father," since that sound old gentleman 
was the wealthiest farmer in that section, with 
but one son and heir to, in lino, supplant 
him in the role of " county god,^^ and haply 
perpetuate the prouder title of ''the biggest 
tax-payer on the assessment list." And this 
fact, too, fortunate as it would seem, was 
doubtless the indirect occasion of a liberal 
percentage of all John's misfortunes. From 
his earliest school-days in the little town, up 
to his tardy graduation from a distant college, 
the influence of his father's wealth invited his 
procrastination, humored its results, encour- 
aged the laxity of his ambition, " and even 
now," as John used, in bitter irony, to put it, 
''it is aiding and abetting me in the ostensible 
practice of my chosen profession, a listless, 
aimless undetermined man of forty, and a con- 

(57) 



58 MRS. MILLER. 

firmed bachelor at that ! ^^ At the utterance 
of this self-depreciating statement, John gen- 
erally jerked his legs down from the top of his 
desk ; and, rising and kicking his chair back 
to the wall, he would stump around his littered 
office till the manilla carpet steamed with dust. 
Then he would wildly break away, seeking 
refuge either in the open street, or in his room 
at the old-time tavern. The Eagle House, 
'' where, ^^ he would say, ''I have lodged and 
boarded, I do solemnly asseverate, for a long, 
unbroken, middle-aged eternity of ten years, 
and can yet assert, in the words of the more 
fortunately-dying Webster, that ' I still live !' " 
Extravagantly satirical as he was at times, 
John had always an indefinable drollery about 
him that made him agreeable company to his 
friends, at least ; and such an admiring friend 
he had constantly at hand in the person of 
Bert Haines. Both were Bohemians in nat- 
ural tendency, and, though John was far in 
Bert's advance in point of age, he found the 
young man ''just the kind of a fellow to have 
around ;" while Bert, in turn, held his senior 
in profound esteem — looked up to him, in fact, 
and in even his eccentricities strove to pattern 
after him. And so it was, when summer days 
were dull and tedious, these two could muse and 
doze the hours away together ; and when the 



MRS. MILLER. 59 

nights were long, and dark, and deep, and 
beautiful, they could drift out in the noon- 
light of the stars, and with ''the soft com- 
plaining flute" and "warbling lute," ''lay 
the pipes," as John would say, for their en- 
during popularity with the girls ! And it was 
immediately subsequent to one of these ro- 
mantic excursions, when the belated pair, at 
two o'clock in the morning, had skulked up 
a side stairway of the old hotel, and gained 
John's room, with nothing more serious hap- 
pening than Bert falling over a trunk and 
smashing his guitar, — just after such a night 
of romance and adventure it was that, in the 
seclusion of John's room, Bert had something 
of especial import to communicate. 

"Mack," he said, as that worthy anathe- 
matized a spiteful match, and then sucked his 
finger. 

"Blast the all-fired old torch!" said John, 
wrestling with the lamp-flue, and turning on 
a welcome flame at last. "Well, 3^ou said 
' Mack ! ' Why do n't you go on ? And do n't 
bawl at the top of your lungs, either. You 've 
already succeeded in waking every boarder 
in the house with that guitar, and you want 
to make amends now by letting them go to 
sleep again ! " 

"But my dear fellow," said Bert, with 



6o MRS. MILLER. 

forced calmness, ''you're the fellow that's 
making all the noise — and — " 

" Why, you howling dervish ! " interrupted 
John, with a feigned air of pleased surprise 
and admiration. " But let 's drop controversy. 
Throw the fragments of your guitar in the 
wood-box there, and proceed with the open- 
ing proposition." 

" What I was going to say was this," said 
Bert, with a half-desperate enunciation ; ''I 'm 
getting tired of this way of living- — clean , dead- 
tired, and fagged out, and sick of the whole 
artificial business ! " 

" Oh, yes ! " exclaimed John, with a tower- 
ing disdain, " you need n't go any further ! I 
know just what malady is throttling you. It 's 
reform — reform ! You 're going to ' turn over 
a new leaf,' and all that, and sign the pledge, 
and quit cigars, and go to work, and pay your 
debts, and gravitate back into Sunday-School, 
where you can make love to the preacher's 
daughter under the guise of religion, and des- 
ecrate the sanctity of the innermost pale of 
the church by confessions at Class of your 
' thorough conversion ! ' Oh, you 're going 
to " 

"No, but I'm going to do nothing of the 
sort," interrupted Bert, resentfully. ''What I 



MRS. MILLER. 6l 

mean — If you '11 let me finish — is, I 'm getting 
too old to be eternally undignifying myself with 
this ' singing of midnight strains under Bon- 
nybell's window panes,' and too old to be 
keeping myself in constant humiliation and 
expense by the borrowing and stringing up 
of old guitars, together with the breakage of 
the same, and the general wear-and-tear on a 
constitution that is slowly being sapped to its 
foundations by exposure in the night-air and 
the dew." ''And while you receive no further 
compensation in return," said John, " than, 
perhaps, the coy turning up of a lamp at 
an upper casement where the jasmine climbs ; 
or an exasperating patter of invisible palms ; 
or a huge dank wedge of fruit-cake shoved at 
you by the old man, through a crack in the 
door." 

" Yes, and I 'm going to have my just re- 
ward, is what I mean," said Bert, " and 
exchange the lover's life for the benedict's. 
Going to hunt out a good, sensible girl and 
marry her." And as the young man con- 
cluded this desperate avowal he jerked the 
bow of his cravat into a hard knot, kicked his 
hat under the bed, and threw himself on the 
sofa like an old suit. 

John stared at him with absolute compas- 



62 MRS. MILLER. 

sion. " Poor devil," he said, half musingly, 
^' I know just how he feels — 

* Ring in the wind his wedding chimes, 
Smile, villagers, at every door; 
Old church-yards stuffed with buried crimes. 
Be clad in sunshine o'er and o'er. — -" 

" Oh, here ! " exclaimed the wretched Bert, 
jumping to his feet ; ''let up on that dismal 
recitative. It would make a dog howl to hear 
that!" 

" Then you Met up ' on that suicidal talk of 
marrying," replied John, "and all that ha- 
rangue of incoherency about your growing 
old. Why, my dear fellow, you 're at least a 
dozen years my junior, and look at me!" 
and John glanced at himself in the glass with 
a feeble pride, noting the gray sparseness of 
his side-hair, and its plaintive dearth on top. 
" Of course I 've got to admit," he continued, 
" that my hair is gradually evaporating ; but 
for all that, I 'm ' still in the ring,' do n't you 
know ; as young in society, for the matter of 
that, as yourself! And this is just the reason 
why I do n't want you to blight every pros- 
pect in your life by marrying at your age — 
especially a woman — I mean the kind of 
woman you 'd be sure to fancy at your age." 

" Did n't I say ' a good, sensible girl ' was 
the kind I had selected?" Bert remonstrated. 



MRS. MILLER. 63 

**Oh!" exclaimed John, ''you 've selected 
her, then?— and without one word to me ! " he 
ended, rebukingly. 

" Well, hang it all ! " said Bert, impatiently ; 
" I knew how you were, and just how you 'd 
talk me out of it ; and I made up my mind 
that for once, at least, I 'd follow the dicta- 
tions of a heart that — however capricious in 
youthful frivolties — should beat, in manhood, 
loyal to itself and loyal to its own aflinity." 

" Go it ! Fire away ! Farewell, vain world !" 
exclaimed the excited John. — "Trade your 
soul off for a pair of ear-bobs and a button- 
hook — a hank of jute hair and a box of lily- 
white ! I 've buried not less than ten old 
chums this way, and here 's another nomi- 
nated for the tomb." 

" But you 've got no reason about you," 
began Bert, — " I want to " — 

" And so do / ' want to,' " broke in John, 
finally, — "I want to get some sleep. — So 
'register' and come to bed. — And lie up on 
edge, too, when you do come — 'cause this old 
catafalque-of-a-bed is just about as narrow 
as your views of single blessedness ! Peace ! 
Not another word ! Pile in ! Pile in ! I 'm 
three-parts sick, anyhow, and I want rest!" 
And very truly he spoke. 



64 MRS. MILLER. 

It was a bright morning when the slothful 
John was aroused by a long, vociferous pound- 
ing on the door. He started up in bed to find 
himself alone — the victim of his wrathful irony- 
having evidently risen and fled away while 
his pitiless tormentor slept — " Doubtless to at 
once accomplish that nefarious intent as set 
forth by his unblushing confession of last 
night," mused the miserable John. And he 
ground his fingers in the corners of his swollen 
eyes, and leered grimly in the glass at the 
feverish orbs, blood-shotten, blurred and 
aching. 

The pounding on the door continued. John 
looked at his watch ; it was only 8 o'clock. 

" Hi, there ! " he called viciously. "What 
do you mean, anyhow? " he went on, elevating 
his voice again ; " shaking a man out of bed 
w^hen he^s just dropping into his first sleep?" 

''I mean that you Ve going to get up ; that 's 
what ! " replied a firm female voice. " It 's 8 
o'clock, and I want to put your room in order ; 
and I 'm not going to wait all day about it, 
either ! Get up and go down to your breakfast, 
and let me have the room ! " And the clamor 
at the door was industriously renewed. 

" Say ! " called John, querulously, hurrying 
on his clothes, " Say ! you ! " 

''Thei'e's no 'say' about it!" responded 



MRS. MILLER. 65 

the determined voice : ''I 've heard about you 
and your ways around this house, and I 'm 
not going to put up with it ! You '11 not lie in 
bed till high noon when I Ve got to keep your 
room in proper order ! " 

" Oh ho ! " bawled John, intelligently : 
''reckon you 're the new invasion here ? Doubt- 
less you 're the girl that 's been hanging up 
the new window-blinds that won't roll, and 
disguising the pillows with clean slips, and 
^hennin' round among my books and papers on 
the table here, and ageing me generally till I 
do n't know my own handwriting by the time I 
find it ! Oh, yes! you 're going to revolutionize 
things here ; you 're going to introduce prompt- 
ness, and system, and order. See you 've 
even filled the wash-pitcher and tucked two 
starched towels through the handle. Have n^t 
got any tin towels, have you ? I rather like this 
new soap, too ! So solid and durable, you 
know ; warranted not to raise a lather. Might 
as well wash one's hands with a door-knob ! " 
And as John's voice grumbled away into the 
sullen silence again, the determined voice 
without responded : ''Oh, you can growl away 
to your heart's content, Mr. McKinney, but I 
want you to distinctly understand that I 'm not 
going to humor you in any of your old bach- 
elor, sluggardly, slovenly ways, and whims 
5 



66 MRS. MILLER. 

and notions. And I want you to understand, 
too, that I 'm not hired help in this house, nor 
a chambermaid, nor anything of the kind. 
I 'm the landlady here ; and I '11 give you just 
ten minutes more to get down to your break- 
fast, or you '11 not get any — that 's all ! " And 
as the reversed cuff John was in the act of 
buttoning slid from his wrist and rolled under 
the dresser, he heard a stiff rusthng of starched 
muslin flouncing past the door, and the quick 
italicized patter of determined gaiters down 
the hall. 

" Look here," said John to the bright-faced 
boy in the hotel office, a half hour later. " It 
seems the house here 's been changing hands 
again." 

''Yes, sir," said the boy, closing the cigar 
case, and handing him a lighted match. 
'' Well, the new landlord, whoever he is," 
continued John, patronizingly, "is a good 
one. Leastwise, he knows what's good to 
eat, and how to serve it." 

The boy laughed timidly, — " It aint a 'land- 
lord,' though — it 's a landlady ; it 's my 
mother." 

" Ah," said John, dallying with the change 
the boy had pushed toward him. "Your 
mother, eh? " And where ^s your father? " 

" He 's dead," said the boy. 



MRS. MILLER. 67 

'^And what's this for?" abruptly asked 
John, examining his change. 

"That 'syour change," said the boy : ''You 
got three for a quarter, and gave me a half." 

"Well, you just keep it," said John, sliding 
back the change. " It's for good luck, you 
know, my boy. Same as drinking your long 
life and prosperity. And, Oh yes, by the way, 
you may tell your mother I '11 have a friend to 
dinner with me to-day." 

''Yes, sir, and thank you, sir,^^ said the 
beaming boy. 

'^Handsome boy !"musedJohn,as he walked 
down street. "Takes that from his father, 
though, I '11 wager my existence ! " 

Upon his office desk John found a hastily 
written note. It was addressed in the well- 
known hand of his old chum. He eyed the 
missive apprehensively, and there was a pos- 
itive pathos in his voice as he said aloud, 
"It's our divorce. I feel it!" The note, 
headed, "At the Office, 4 in Morning," ran 
like this : 

"Dear Mack — I left you slumbering so 
soundly that, by noon, when you waken, I 
hope, in your refreshed state, you will look 
more tolerantly on my intentions as partially 
confided to you this night. I will not see you 
here again to say good-bye. I wanted to, but 



68 MRS. MILLER. 

was afraid to ' rouse the sleeping lion.' I will 
not close my eyes to-night — fact is, I have n't 
time. Our serenade at Josie's was a pre-ar- 
ranged signal by which she is to be ready and 
at the station for the 5 morning train. You 
may remember the lighting of three consecu- 
tive matches at her window before the igniting 
of her lamp. That meant, 'Thrice dearest one, 
I'll meet thee at the depot at 4 : 30 sharp.' 
So, my dear Mack, this is to inform you that, 
even as you read, Josie and I have eloped. It 
is all the old man's fault, yet I forgive him. 
Hope he '11 return the favor. Josie predicts he 
will, inside of a week — or two weeks, anyhow. 
Good-bye, Mack, old boy; and let a fellow 
down as easy as you can. Aifectionately, 

''Bert." 

*' Heavens ! " exclaimed John, stifling the 
note in his hand and stalking tragically around 
the room. "Can it be possible that I have 
nursed a frozen viper? An ingrate? A wolf in 
sheep's clothing? An orang-outang in gent's 
furnishings?" 

"Was you callin' me, sir?" asked a voice 
at the door. It was the janitor. 

" No ! " thundered John ; " Quit my sight ! 
getoutof my way ! No, no, Thompson, I don't 
mean that," he called after him. "Here 's a 
half dollar for you, and I want you to lock up 



MRS. MILLER. 69 

the office, and tell anybody that wants to see 
me that I We been set upon, and sacked and 
assassinated in cold blood ; and I Ve fled to 
my father's in the country, and am lying there 
in the convulsions of dissolution, babbling of 
green fields and running brooks, and thirsting 
for the life of every woman that comes in gun- 
shot ! " And then, more like a confirmed in- 
valid than a man in the strength and pride of 
his prime, he crept dow^n into the street again, 
and thence back to his hotel. 

Dejectedly and painfully climbing to his 
room, he encountered, on the landing above, 
a little woman in a jaunty dusting-cap and a 
trim habit of crisp muslin. He tried to evade 
her, but in vain. She looked him squarely in 
the face — occasioning him the dubious impres- 
sion of either needing shaving very badly, or 
having egg-stains on his chin. 

''YouVe the gentleman in No. ii, I be- 
lieve ?^^ she said. 

He nodded confusedly. 

''Mr. McKinney is your name, I think?" 
she queried, with a pretty elevation of the eye- 
brows. 

''Yes, ma'am," said John, rather abjectly. 
"You see, ma'am — But I beg pardon," he 
went on stammeringly, and with a very awk- 



70 MRS. MILLER. 

ward bow — " I beg pardon, but I am address- 
ing — ah^ — the — ah — -the — ' ' 

''You are addressing the new landlady," 
she interpolated, pleasantly. ''Mrs. Miller 
is my name. I think we should be friends, 
Mr. McKinney, since I hear that you are one 
of the oldest patrons of the house." 

"Thank you — -thank you ! " said John, com- 
pletely embarrassed. "Yes, indeed ! — ha, ha. 
Oh, yes— yes — really, we must be quite old 
friends, I assure you, Mrs. — Mrs. — " 

" Mrs. Miller," smilingly prompted the little 
woman. 

" Yes, ah, yes, — Mrs. Miller. Lovely morn- 
ing, Mrs. Miller," said John, edging past her 
and backing toward his room. 

But as Mrs. Miller was laughing outright, for 
some mysterious reason, and gave no affirma- 
tion in response to his proposition as to the 
quality of the weather, John, utterly abashed 
and nonplussed, darted into his room and 
closed the door. " Deucedly extraordinary 
woman ! '^ he thought; "wonder what's her 
idea!" 

He remained locked in his room till the 
dinner-hour ; and, when he promptly emerged 
for that occasion, there was a very noticeable 
improvement in his personal appearance, in 
point of dress, at least, though there still 



MRS. MILLER. 7 1 

lingered about his smoothly-shaven features 
a certain haggard, care-worn, anxious look 
that would not out. 

Next his own place at the table he found a 
chair tilted forward, as though in reservation 
for some honored guest. What did it mean.^ 
Oh, he remembered now. Told the boy to 
tell his mother he would have a friend to dine 
with him. Bert — and, blast the fellow! he 
was, doubtless, dining then with a far prefer- 
able companion — his wife — in a palace-car on 
the P., C. & St. L., a hundred miles away. 
The thought v/as maddening. Of course, 
now, the landlady would have material for a 
new assault. And how could he avert it? A 
despairing film blurred his sight for the mo- 
ment — then the eyes flashed daringly. " I 
will meet it like a man ! " he said, mentallv — 
''yea, like a State's Attorney, — I will invite 
it ! Let her do her worst ! " 

He called a servant, directing some mes- 
sage in an undertone. 

" Yes, sir," said the agreeable servant, ''I '11 
go right away, sir," and left the room. 

Five minutes elapsed, and then a voice at 
his shoulder startled him : 

"Did you send for me, Mr. McKinney? 
What is it I can do?" 

''You are very kind, Mrs. — Mrs. — " 



72 MRS. MILLER. 

" Mrs. Miller," said the lady, with a smile 
that he remembered. 

''Now, please spare me even the mildest 
of rebukes. I deserve your censure, but I 
can 't stand it — I can 't positively ! " and there 
was a pleading look in John's lifted eyes that 
changed the little woman's smile to an expres- 
sion of real solicitude. " I have sent for you," 
continued John, ''to ask of you three great 
favors. Please be seated while I enumerate 
them. First — I want you to forgive and for- 
get that ill-natured, uncalled-for grumbling 
of mine this morning when you wakened me." 

"Why, certainly," said the landlady, again 
smiling, though quite seriously. 

"I thank you," said John, with dignity. 
"And, second," he continued — " I want your 
assurance that my extreme confusion and 
awkwardness on the occasion of our meeting 
later were rightly interpreted." 

"Certainly — certainly," said the landlady, 
with the kindliest sympathy. 

"I am grateful — utterly," said John, with 
newer dignity. " And then," he went on, — 
" after informing you that it is impossible for 
the best friend I have in the world to be with 
me at this hour, as intended, I want you to do 
me the very great honor of dining with me. 
Will you?" 



MRS. MILLER. 



73 



''Why, certainly," said the charming little 
landlady — ''and a thousand thanks beside! 
But tell me something of your friend," she con- 
tinued, as they were being served. "What 
is he like — and what is his name — and where 
is he?" 

" Well," said John, warily,—" he 's like all 
young fellows of his age. He 's quite young, 
you know — not over thirty, I should say — a 
mere boy, in fact, but clever — talented — ver- 
satile." 

" — Unmarried, of course," said the chatty 
little woman. 

"Oh, yes!" said John, in a matter-of- 
course tone — but he caught himself abruptly 
— then stared intently at his napkin — glanced 
evasively at the side-face of his questioner, 
and said, — "Oh yes! Yes, indeed! He's 
unmarried. — Old bachelor hke myself, you 
know. Ha! Ha!" 

" So he 's not like the young man here that 
distinguished himself last night?" said the 
little woman, archly. 

The fork in John's hand, half-lifted to his 
lips, faltered and fell back toward his plate. 

"Why, what's that?" said John, in a 
strange voice; "I hadn't heard anything 
about it — I mean I have n't heard anything 
about any young man. What was it? " 



74 MRS, MILLER. 

" Have n't heard anything about the elope- 
ment?" exclaimed the little woman, in as- 
tonishment.- — "Why, it^s been the talk of 
the town all morning. Elopement in high 
life — son of a grain-dealer, name of Hines, 
or Himes, or something, and a preacher's 
daughter — Josie somebody — did n't catch her 
last name. Wonder if you do n't know the 
parties — Why, Mr. McKinney, are you ill?" 

" Oh, no— not at all ! '' said John : " Do n't 
mention it. Ha — ha ! Just eating too rapidly, 
that 's all. Go on with— you were saying that 
Bert and Josie had really eloped." 

"What 'Bert'?" asked the little woman 
quickly. 

" Why, did I say Bert? " said John, with a 
guilty look. " I meant Haines, of course, you 
know — Haines and Josie.— And did they really 
elope?" 

"That's the report," answered the little 
woman, as though deliberating some impor- 
tant evidence; "and they say, too, that the 
plot of the runaway was quite ingenious. It 
seems the young lovers were assisted in their 
flight by some old fellow— friend of the young 

man's Why, Mr. McKinney, you are ill, 

surely? " 

John's face was ashen. 

'' No-— no ! " he gasped, painfully : " Go 



MRS. MILLER. 75 

on — go on ! Tell me more about the— the — 
the old fellow — the old reprobate ! And is he 
still at large?" 

'^Yes," said the little womon, anxiously- 
regarding the strange demeanor of her com- 
panion. ''They say, though, that the law can 
do nothing with him, and that this fact only 
intensifies the agony of the broken-hearted 
parents — for it seems they have, till now, re- 
garded him both as a gentleman and family 
friend in whom " — 

" I really am ill," moaned John, waveringly 
rising to his feet; '' but I beg you not to be 
alarmed. Tell your little boy to come to my 
room, where I will retire at once, if you'll 
excuse me, and send for my physician. It is 
simply a nervous attack. I am often troubled 
so ; and only perfect quiet and seclusion re- 
stores me. You have done me a great honor, 
Mrs."— (''Mrs.— Miller," sighed the sympa- 
thetic little woman) — "Mrs. Miller, — and 1 
thank you more than I have words to express." 
He bowed limply, turned through a side door 
opening on a stair, and tottered to his room. 

During the three weeks' illness through 
which he passed, John had every attention — 
much more, indeed, than he had conscious- 
ness to appreciate. For the most part his 



76 MRS. MILLER. 

mind wandered, and he talked of curious 
things, and laughed hysterically, and sere- 
naded mermaids that dwelt in grassy seas of 
dew, and were bald-headed like himself. He 
played upon a fourteen-jointed flute of solid 
gold, with diamond holes, and keys carved 
out of thawless ice. His old father came at 
first to take him home ; but he could not be 
moved, the doctor said. 

Two weeks of John's illness had worn away, 
when a very serious looking young man, in a 
traveling duster, and a high hat, came up the 
stairs to see him. A handsome young lady 
was clinging to his arm. It was Bert and 
Josie. She had guessed the very date of their 
forgiveness. John wakened even clearer in 
mind than usual that afternoon. He recog- 
nized his old chum at a glance, and Josie — 
now Bert's wife. Yes, he comprehended that. 
He was holding a hand of each when another 
figure entered. His thin, white fingers loos- 
ened their clasp, and he held a hand toward 
the new comer. ''Here," he said, '' is my best 
friend in the world — Bert, you and Josie will 
love her, I know ; for this is Mrs. — Mrs." — 
"Mrs. Miller," said the radiant little woman. — 
"Yes, — Mrs. Miller," saidjohn, very proudly. 



f{})]^n}c^ of f{mt)]^ Dai^s 




THE TREE-TOAD. 

CURIOUS-LIKE," said the tree-toad, 
" I 've twittered fer rain all day; 
And I got up soon, 
And I hollered till noon— 
But the sun, hit blazed away, 

Till I jest dumb down in a crawfish-hole, 
Weary at heart, and sick at soul! 

" Dozed away fer an hour. 

And I tackled the thing agin; 

And I sung, and sung. 

Till I knowed my lung 
Was jest about give in; 

And then, thinks I, ef hit do n't rain now, 

There 're nothin' in singin', anyhow! 

" Once in awhile some 

Would come a drivin' past; 
And he 'd hear my cry, 
And stop and sigh — 
Till I jest laid back, at last. 

And I hollered rain till I thought my th'oat 
Would bust right open at ever' note! 

"Butl/efc^edherl O I fetcked her\-^ 
'Cause a little while ago, 
As I kindo' set, 
With one eye shet. 
And a-singin' soft and low, 

A voice drapped down on my fevered brain, 
Sayin',— *Ef you'll jest hush I '11 rain!'" 
(79) 



a worn-out pencil. 
X\/^laday! 

^ ^ Here I lay 

You at rest — all worn away, 
O my pencil, to the tip 
Of our old companionship! 

Memory 

Sighs to see 

What you are, and used to be, 

Looking backward to the time 

When you wrote your earliest rhyme!- 

When I sat 

Filing at 

Your first point, and dreaming that 

Your initial song should be 

Worthy of posterity. 

With regret 

I forget 

If the song be living yet, 

Yet remember, vaguely now, 

It was honest, anyhow. 

You have brought 

Me a thought — 

Truer yet was never taught, — 
That the silent song is best, 
And the unsung worthiest. 

(80) 



A WORN-OUT PENCIL. 8l 

So if I, 

When I die, 

May as uncomplainingly 

Drop aside as now you do, 

Write of me, as I of you: — 

Here lies one 

Who begun 

Life a-singing, heard of none; 
And he died, satisfied, 
With his dead songs by his side. 

6 






THE STEPMOTHER. 

I R ST she come to our house, 

Tommy run and hid; 
And Emily and Bob and me 

We cried jus' like we did 
When Mother died, — and we all said 
^At we all wisht 'at we was dead! 

And Nurse she could n't stop us. 

And Pa he tried and tried, — 
We sobbed and shook and would n't look, 

But only cried and cried; 
And nen someone — we could n't jus' 
Tell who — was cryin' same as us! 

Our Stepmother! Yes, it was her. 

Her arms around us all — 
'Cause Tom slid down the bannister 

And peeked in from the hall. — 
And we all love her, too, because 
She 's purt nigh good as Mother was! 



(83) 



TThe 



THE RAIN. 

HE RAIN! the rain! the rain! 

It gushed from the skies and streamed 
Like awful tears; and the sick man thought 

How pitiful it seemed! 
And he turned his face awaj, 

And stared at the wall again, 
His hopes nigh dead and his heart worn out. 

O the rain! the rain! the rain! 

II. 
The rain! the rain! the rain! 

And the broad stream brimmed the shores; 
And ever the river crept over the reeds 

And the roots of the sycamores: 
A corpse swirled by in a drift 

Where the boat had snapt its chain — 
And a hoarse-voiced mother shrieked and raved. 

O the rain! the rain! the rain! 

III. 
The rain! the rain! the rain! — 

Pouring, with never a pause, 
Over the fields and the green byways — 

How beautiful it was! 
And the new-made man and wife 

Stood at the window-pane 
Like two glad children kept from school. — 

O the rain! the rain! the rain! 

(8S^ 



"I 



THE LEGEND GLORIFIED. 

DEEM that God is not disquieted"— 
This in a mighty poet's rhymes I read; 
And blazoned so forever doth abide 
Within my soul the legend glorified. 

Though awful tempests thunder overhead, 
I deem that God is not disquieted, — 
The faith that trembles somewhat yet is sure 
Through storm and darkness of a way secure. 

Bleak winters, when the naked spirit hears 

The break of hearts, through stinging sleet of tears, 

I deem that God is not disquieted; 

Against all stresses am I clothed and fed. 

Nay, even with fixed eyes and broken breath, 
My feet dip down into the tides of death. 
Nor any friend be left, nor prayer be said, 
I deem that God is not disquieted. 



(84) 



WANT TO BE WHUR MOTHER IS. 
44> 



'^W^ 



ANT TO BE whur mother is! Want to be whur 
mother is! " 

Jeemses Rivers! wo n't some one ever shet that howl o' his? 
That-air yellin' drives me wild! 
Cain 't none of ye stop the child? 
Want jer Daddy? " Naw." Gee whizz! 
" Want to be whur mother is!" 

"Want to be whur mother is ! Want to be whur mother is !" 
Coax him, Sairy! Mary, sing somepin fer him! Lift him, 
Liz — 
Bang the clock-bell with the key — 
Er the meat-ax! Gee-mun-nee! 
Listen to them lungs o' his! 
" Want to be whur mother is! " 

"Want to be whur mother is ! Want to be whur mother is !" 
Preacher guess Ml pound all night on that old pulpit o' his; 

'Pears to me some wimmin jest 

Shows religious interest 

Mostly 'fore their fambly 's riz! 
" Want to be whur mother is! " 

******** 
"Want to be whur mother is ! Want to be whur mother is !" 
Nights like these and whipperwills alius brings that voice 
of his! 
Sairy; Mary; 'Lizabeth; 
Do n't set there and ketch yer death 
In the dew — er rheumatiz — 
Want to be whur mother is? 

(85) 



OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME. 



[N THE jolly winters 
Of the long-ago, 
It was not so cold as now — 

O! No! No! 
Then, as I remember, 

Snowballs, to eat. 
Were as good as apples now, 
And every bit as sweet! 

II. 

In the jolly winters 

Of the dead-and-gone. 
Bub was warm as summer, 

With his red mitts on, — 
Just in his little waist- 

And-pants all together. 
Who ever heard him growl 

About cold weather? 

III. 
In the jolly winters of the long-ago- 
Was it half ^o cold as now.? 

O! No! No! 
Who caught his death o' cold. 

Making prints of men 
Flat-backed in snow that now 's 

Twice as cold again.? 



(86) 



OLD man's nursery RHYME. 87 



IV. 

In the jolly winters 

Of the dead-and-gone, 
Startin' out rabbit-hunting 

Earlj as the dawn, — 
Who ever froze his fingers, 

Ears, heels, or toes, — 
Or 'd a cared if he had? 

Nobody knows! 

V. 

Nights by the kitchen-stove, 

Shelling white and red 
Corn in the skillet, and 

Sleepin' four abed! 
Ah! the jolly winters 

Of the long-ago! 
We were not so old as now— = 

O! No! No! 



THREE DEAD FRIENDS. 

ALWAYS suddenly they are gone — 
The friends we trusted and held secure— 
Suddenly we are gazmg on, 
Not a smiling face, but the marble-pure 
Dead mask of a face that nevermore 
To a smile of ours will make reply — 

The lips close-locked as the eyelids are. — 
Gone — swift as the flash of the molten ore 
A meteor pours through a midnight sky, 
Leaving it blind of a single star. 

Tell us, O Death, Remorseless Might! 

What is this old, unescapable ire 
You wreak on us? — from the birth of light 

Till the world be charred to a core of fire ! 
We do no evil thing to you — 

We seek to evade you — that is all — 

That is your will — ^you will not be known 
Of men. What, then, would you have us do.? — 

Cringe, and wait till your vengeance fall. 

And your graves be fed, and the trumpet blown? 

You desire no friends; but ive — O we 

Need them so, as we falter here, 
Fumbling through each new vacancy, 

As each is stricken that we hold dear. 
One you struck but a year ago; 

And one not a month ago; and one — 
(God's vast pity!) — and one lies now 
Where the widow wails, in her nameless woe, 
And the soldiers pace, with the sword and gun. 
Where the comrade sleeps, with the laureled brow. 
(88) 



THREE DEAD FRIENDS. 89 

And what did the first? — that wayward soul, 

Clothed of sorrow, yet nude of sin, 
And with all hearts bowed in the strange control 

Of the heavenly voice of his violin. 
Why, it was music the way he stood^ 

So grand was the poise of the head and so 
Full was the figure of majesty! — 
One heard with the eyes, as a deaf man would. 

And with all sense brimmed to the overflow 
With tears of anguish and ecstasy. 

And what did the girl, with the great warm light 

Of genius sunning her eyes of blue. 
With her heart so pure, and her soul so white — 

What, O Death, did she do to you? 
Through field and wood as a child she strayed, 

As Nature, the dear sweet mother led; 
While from her canvas, mirrored back, 
Glimmered the stream through the everglade 

Where the grapevine trailed from tne trees to wed 
Its likeness of emerald, blue and black. 

And what did he, who, the last of these. 

Faced you, with never a fear, O Death? 
Did you hate him that he loved the breeze. 

And the morning dews, and the rose's breath? 
Did you hate him that he answered not 

Your hate again — but turned, instead, 
His only hate on his country's wrongs? 
Well — ^you possess him, dead! — but what . 

Of the good he wrought? With laureled head 
He bides with us in his deeds and songs. 

Laureled, first, that he bravely fought, 

And forged a way to our flag's release; 
Laureled, next — for the harp he taught 

To wake glad songs in the days of peace — 
Songs of the woodland haunts he held 



90 THREE DEAD FRIENDS. 

As close in his love as they held their bloom 
In their inmost bosoms of leaf and vine- 
Songs that echoed, and pulsed and welled 
Tiirough the town's pent streets, and the sick child's 
room. 
Pure as a shower in soft sunshine. 

Claim them. Death; j^et their fame endures, 

What friend next will you rend from us 
In that cold, pitiless way of yours. 

And leave us a grief more dolorous? 
Speak to us! — tell us, O Dreadful Power! — 

Are we to have not a lone friend left? — 
Since, frozen, .sodden, or green the sod, — 
In every second of every hour, 

Some one, Death, you have left thus bereft, 
Half inaudibly shrieks to God. 



^ 



IN BOHEMIA, 

A! MY DEAR! I 'm back again— 

Vendor of Bohemia's wares! 
Lordj! How it pants a man 
Climbing up those awful stairs! 

WSM, I 've made the dealer say 
Your sketch might sell, anyway! 
And I 've made a publisher 
Hear my poem, Kate, my dean 

In Bohemia, Kate, my dear — 

Lodgers in a musty flat 
On the top floor — living here 

Neighborless, and used to that, — 
Like a nest beneath the eaves, 
vSo our little home receives 
Only guests of chirping cheer — 
We '11 be happy, Kate, my dear! 

Under your north-light there, you 

At your easel, with a stain 
On your nose of Prussian blue, 
Paint your bits of shine and rain; 
With my feet thrown up at will 
O'er my littered window-sill, 
I write rhymes that ring as clear 
As your laughter, Kate, my dear. 

Puflfmy pipe, and stroke mj^ hair — 

Bite my pencil -tip and gaze 
At you, mutely mooning there 

O'er jour " Aprils " and your '*Mays! " 
(90 



92 IN BOHEMIA. 

Equal inspiration in 

Dimples of jour cheek and chin, 

And the golden atmosphere 

Of jour paintings, Kate, mj dear! 

Trying! Yes, at times it is, 

To clink happj rhjmes, and fling 
On the canvas scenes of bliss. 
When we are half famishing! — 

When jour "jersej" rips in spots, 
And jour hat's " forget-me-nots" 
Have grown tousled, old and sere — 
It is trjing, Kate, mj dear! 

But — as sure — some picture sells, 

And — sometimes — the poetrj — 
Bless us! How the parrot jells 
His acclaims at jou and me! 

How we revel then in scenes 
Of high banqueting! — sardines — 
Salads — olives — and a sheer 
Pint of sherrj, Kate, mj dear! 

Even now I cross jour palm, 

With this great round world of gold! — 
"Talking wild?" Perhaps I am — 
Then, this little five-jear-old! — 
Call it anjthing jou will, 
So it lifts jour face until 
I maj kiss awaj that tear 
Ere it drowns me, Kate, mj dear. 



o 



IN THE DARK. 



IN THE depths of midnight 
What fancies haunt the brain! 
When even the sigh of the sleeper 
Sounds like a sob of pain. 



A sense of awe and of wonder 

I may never well define, — 
For the thoughts that come in the shadows 

Never come in the shine. 

The old clock down in the parlor 
Like a sleepless mourner grieves, 

And the seconds drip in the silence 
As the rain drips from the eaves. 

And I think of the hands that signal 

The hours there in the gloom, 
And wonder what angel watchers 

Wait in the darkened room. 

And I think of the smiling faces 

That used to watch and wait. 
Till the click of the clock was answered 

By the click of the opening gate. — 

They are not there now in the evening — 

Morning or noon — not there; 
Yet I know that they keep their vigil, 

And wait for me Somewhere. 



(93) 



WET WEATHER TALK. 

'T AIN'T no use to grumble and complain; 
. It's jest as cheap and easj to rejoice: 
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, 
W'j, rain 's my choice. 

Men giner'lj, to all intents — 

Although they 're ap' to grumble some — 
Puts most their trust in Providence, 
And takes things as they come; — 
That is, the commonality 
Of men that 's lived as long as me, 
Has w^atched the world enough to learn 
They 're not the boss of the concern. 

With some, of course, it 's different — 

I 've seed young men that knowed it all, 
And did n't like the way things went 
On this terrestial ball! 

But, all the same, the rain some way 
Rained jest as hard on picnic-day; 
Er when they railly wanted it, 
It maybe would n't rain a bit! 

In this existence, dry and wet 

Will overtake the best of men — 
Some little skift o' clouds '11 shet 
The sun off now and then; 

But maybe, while you 're wondern' who 
You 've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, 
And want it — out '11 pop the sun, 
And you '11 be glad you ain't got none! 

(94) 



WET WEATHER TALK. 95 

It aggervates the farmers, too — 

They 's too much wet, er too much sun, 
Er work, er waiting round to do 
Before the plowin"s done; 

And maybe, like as not, the wheat, 
Jest as it 's lookin' hard to beat. 
Will ketch the storm — and jest about 
The time the corn 's a-jintin' out! 

These here cy-clones a-foolin' round — 

And back'ard crops — and wind and rain, 
And yit the corn that 's wallered down 
May elbow up again ! 

They ain't no sense, as I kin see, 
In mortals, sich as you and me, 
A-faultin' Nature's wise intents. 
And lockin' horns with Providence! 

It ain't no use to grumble and complain; 
It 's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: 
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain., 
W'y, rain 's my choice. 



WHERE SHALL WE LAND. 

" Where shall we land you^ sweet f " — Swinburne. 



^ 



LL LISTLESSLY we float 
Out seaward in the boat 
That beareth Love. 
Our sails of purest snow 
Bend to the blue below 

And to the blue above. 
Where shall we land? 

We drift upon a tide 
Shoreless on every side, 

Save where the eje 
Of Fancy sweeps far lands 
Shelved slopingly with sands 

Of gold and porphyry. 
Where shall we land? 

The fairy isles we see, 
Loom up so mistily — 

So vaguely fair, 
We do not care to break 
Fresh bubbles in our wake 

To bend our course for there. 
Where shall we land? 

The warm winds of the deep 
Have lulled our sails to sleep. 

And so we glide 
Careless of wave or wind, 
Or change of any kind. 

Or turn of any tide. 

Where shall we land? 

(96) 



WHERE SHALL WE LAND. 97 

We droop our dreamy eyes 
Where our reflection lies 

Steeped in the sea, 
And, in an endless fit 
Of languor, smile on it 

And its sweet mimicry. 
Where shall we land? 

"Where shall we land?" God's grace! 
I know not any place 

So fair as this — 
Swung here between the blue 
Of sea and sky, with you 
To ask ine, with a kiss, 

" Where shall we land?" 



Aj? Old Settler^5 5torij 



AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY. 

^^^/1[LLIAM WILLIAMS his name was— 
or so he said ; — Bill Williams they 
called him, and them 'at knowed him best 
called him Bill Bills. 

The first I seed o' Bills was about two 
weeks after he got here. The Settlement 
was n't nothin' but a baby in them days, fer 
I mind 'at old Ezry Sturgiss had jist got his 
saw and griss-mill a-goin', and Bills had 
come along and claimed to know all about 
millin', and got a job with him; and millers 
in them times was wanted worse 'n congerss- 
men, and I reckon got better wages ; fer 
afore Ezry built, ther was n't a dust o' meal 
er flour to be had short o' the White Water, 
better'n sixty mild from here, the way we 
had to fetch it. And they used to come to 
Ezry's fer ther grindin' as fer as that ; and 
one feller I knowed to come from what used to 
be the old South Fork, over eighty mild from 
here, and in the wettest, rainyest weather ; 
and mud ! Law! 

Well, this-here Bills was a-workin' fer Ezry 
at the time — part the time a-grindin', and 
part the time a-lookin' after the sawin', and 

(lOl) 



I02 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 

gittin' out timber and the like. Bills was a 
queer-lookin' feller, shore ! About as tall a 
build man as Tom Carter — but of course you 
do n't know nothin' o' Tom Carter. A great 
big hulk of a feller, Tom was ; and as fer back 
as Fifty-eight used to make his brags that he 
could cut and put up his seven cord a day. 

Well, what give Bills this queer look, as I 
was a-goin' on to say, was a great big ugly 
scar a-runnin' from the corner o' one eye 
clean down his face and neck, and I do n't 
know how fer down his breast — -awful lookin' ; 
and he never shaved, and ther was n't a hair 
a-growin' in that scar, and it looked like 
a — some kind o' pizen snake er somepin' a 
crawlin' in the grass and weeds. I never 
seed sich a' out-an'-out onry-lookin' chap, and 
I '11 never fergit the first time I set eyes on 
him. 

Steve and me — Steve was my youngest 
brother ; Steve 's be'n in Californy now fer, 
le' me see, — well, anyways, I reckon, over 
thirty year. — Steve was a-drivin' the team at 
the time — I alius let Steve drive ; 'peared like 
Steve was made a-purpose fer bosses. The 
beatin'est hand with bosses 'at ever you did 
see-an'-I-know ! W'y, a boss, after he got kind 
o' used to Steve a-handlin' of him, would do 
anything fer him I And I 've knowed that 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 103 

boy to swap fer hosses 'at cou'dn't hardly 
make a shadder ; and, afore you knowed it, 
Steve would have 'em a-cavortin' around a- 
lookin' as peert and fat and slick ! 

Well, we 'd come over to Ezry's fer some 
grindin' that day ; and Steve wanted to price 
some lumber fer a house, intendin' to marry 
that Fall — and would a-married, I reckon, ef 
the girl had n't a-died jist as she 'd got her 
weddin' clothes done, and that set hard on 
Steve fer awhile. Yit he rallied, you know, 
as a youngster will ; but he never married, 
someway — never married. Reckon he never 
found no other woman he could love well 
enough, 'less it was — well, no odds. — The 
Good Bein 's jedge o' what 's best fer each 
and all. 

We lived then about eight mild from Ezry's, 
and it tuck about a day to make the trip ; so 
you kin kind o' git an idee o' how the roads 
was in them days. 

Well, on the way over I noticed Steve was 
mighty quiet-like, but I did n't think nothin' 
of it, tel at last he says, says he, "Tom, I 
want you to kind o' keep an eye out fer Ezry's 
new hand," meanin Bills. And then I kind o' 
suspicioned somepin' o' nother was up betwixt 
'em ; and shore enough ther was, as I found 
out afore the day was over. 



I04 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 

I knowed 'at Bills was a mean sort of a 
man, from what I'd heerd. His name was 
all over the neighborhood afore he 'd be'n 
here two weeks. 

In the first place, he come in a suspicious 
sort o' way. Him and his wife, and a little 
baby only a few months old, come through 
in a kivvered wagon with a fambly a-goin' 
som'ers in The Illinoy ; and they stopped at 
the mill, fer some meal er somepin', and Bills 
got to talkin' with Ezry 'bout millin', and one 
thing o' nother, and said he was expeerenced 
some 'bout a mill hisse'f, and told Ezry ef he 'd 
give him work he M stop ; said his wife and 
baby was n't strong enough to stand trav'lin', 
and ef Ezry 'd give him work he was ready 
to lick into it then and there ; said his woman 
could pay her board by sewin' and the like, 
tel they got ahead a little ; and then, ef he 
liked the neighberhood, he said he 'd as leave 
settle there as anywheres ; he was huntin' a 
home, he said, and the outlook kind o' struck 
him, and his woman railly needed rest, and 
wasn't strong enough to go much furder. 
And old Ezry kind o' tuck pity on the feller ; 
and havin' houseroom to spare, and railly in 
need of a good hand at the mill, he said all 
right ; and so the feller stopped and the wagon 
druv ahead and left 'em ; and they did n't 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. IO5 

have no things ner nothin' — not even a cyar- 
pet-satchel, ner a stitch o' clothes, on^ what 
they had on their backs. And I think it was 
the third er fourth day after Bills stopped 'at 
he whirped Tomps Burk, the bully o' here 
them days, tel you would n't a-knowed him ! 
Well, I 'd heerd o' this, and the fact is I 'd 
made up my mind 'at Bills was a bad stick, 
and the place was n't none the better fer his 
bein' here. But, as I was a-goin^ on to say, — 
as Steve and me driv up to the mill, I ketched 
sight o' Bills the first thing, a-lookin' out o' 
where some boards was knocked off, jist over 
the worter-wheel ; and he knowed Steve — I 
could see that by his face ; and he hollered 
somepin', too, but what it was I could n't jist 
make out, fer the noise o' the wheel ; but he 
looked to me as ef he 'd hollered somepin' 
mean a-purpose so 's Steve would 71' t hear it, 
and he 'd have the consolation o' knowin' 'at 
he 'd called Steve some onry name 'thout 
givin' him a chance to take it up. Steve was 
alius quiet like, but ef you raised his dander 
onc't — and you could do that 'thout much 
trouble, callin^ him names er somepin', par- 
ticular' anything 'bout his mother. Steve 
loved his mother — alius loved his mother, and 
would fight fer her at the drap o' the hat. 
And he was her idLVO-rite — alius a-talkin' o' 



Io6 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

''her boy, Steven," as she used to call him, 
and so proud of him, and so keerful of him 
alius, when he 'd be sick er anything ; nuss 
him like a baby, she would. 

So when Bills hollered, Steve didn^t pay 
no attention; and I said nothin', o' course, 
and did n't let on like I noticed him. So we 
druv round to the south side and hitched ; 
and Steve 'lowed he 'd better feed ; so I left 
him with the bosses and went into the mill. 

They was jist a-stoppin' fer dinner. Most 
of 'em brought ther dinners— lived so fer away, 
you know. The two Smith boys lived on 
what used to be the old Warrick farm, five er 
six mild, anyhow, from wher' the mill stood. 
Great stout fellers, they was ; and little Jake, 
the father of 'em, was n't no man at all — not 
much bigger 'n you, I rickon. Le' me see, 
now : — Ther was Tomps Burk, Wade Elwood, 
and Joe and Ben Carter, and Wesley Morris, 
John Coke — wary little cuss, he was, afore he 
got his leg sawed off — and Ezry, and — Well, 
I do n't jist mind all the boys— 's a long time 
ago, and I never was much of a hand fer 
names. — Now, some folks '11 hear a name and 
never fergit it, but I can 't boast of a good 
ricollection, 'specially o' names ; and fer the 
last thirty year my mem'ry 's be'n a-failin' 
me, ever sence a spell o' fever 'at I brought 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. IO7 

on onc't — fever and rheumatiz together. You 
see, I went a-sainin' with a passel o' the boys, 
fool-like, and let my clothes freeze on me 
a-comin' home. W'y? niy breeches was like 
stove-pipes when I pulled 'em off. 'LI, ef I 
did n't pay fer that spree ! Rheumatiz got a 
holt o' me and belt me there flat o' my back 
fer eight weeks, and could n't move hand er 
foot 'thout a-hollerin' like a' Injun. And I 'd 
a-be'n there yit, I reckon, ef it had n't a-be'n 
fer a' old hoss-do<:tor, name o' Jomes ; and he 
gits a lot o' sod and steeps it in hot whisky 
and pops it on me, and I '11-be-switched-to- 
death ef it didn't cuore me up, fer all I 
laughed and told him I 'd better take the 
whisky inardly and let him keep the grass 
fer his doctor bill. But that 's nuther here 
ner there : — As I was a-saying ^bout the mill : 
As I went in, the boys had stopped work and 
was a-gittin' down ther dinners, and Bills 
amongst 'em, and old Ezry a-chattin' away — 
great hand, he was, fer his joke, and alius 
a-cuttin' up and a-gittin' off his odd-come- 
shorts on the boys. And that day he was in 
particular good humor. He 'd brought some 
liquor down fer the boys, and he'd be'n 
drinkin' a little hisse'f, enough to feel it. He 
did n't drink much — that is to say, he did n't 
git drunk adzactly ; but he tuck his dram, 



Io8 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

you understand. You see, they made ther 
own whisky in them days, and it was n't 
nothin' like the bilin' stuff you git now. Old 
Ezry had a little still, and alius made his own 
whisky, enough fer fambly use, and jist as 
puore as worter, and as harmless. But now- 
a~days the liquor you git 's rank pizen. They 
say they put tobacker in it, and strych- 
nine, and the Lord knows w^hat ; ner I never 
knowed why, 'less it w^as to give it a richer- 
lookin' flavor, like. Well, Ezry he 'd brought 
up a jug, and the boys had be'n a-takin' it 
purty free ; I seed that as quick as I went in. 
And old Ezry called out to me to come and 
take some, the first thing. Told him I did n't 
b'lieve I keered about it ; but nothin' would 
do but I must take a drink with the boys ; 
and I was tired anyhow and I thought a lit- 
tle would n't hurt ; so I takes a swig ; and as 
I set the jug down Bills spoke up and saj^s, 
''You 're a stranger to me, and I 'm a stranger 
to you, but I reckon we can drink to our bet- 
ter acquaintance," er somepin' to that amount, 
and poured out another snifter in a gourd 
he 'd be'n a-drinkin' coffee in, and handed it 
to me. Well, I could n't well refuse, of 
course, so I says, " Here 's to us," and drunk 
her down — might)^ nigh a half pint, I reckon. 
Now, I railly did n't want it, but, as I tell 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. IO9 

you, I was obleeged to take it, and I downed 
her at a swaller and never batted an eye, fer, 
to tell the fact about it, I liked the taste o' 
liquor ; and I do yit, only I know when I' got 
enough. Jist then I did n't want to drink on 
account o' Steve. Steve could n't abide liquor 
in no shape ner form — fer medicine ner 
nothin', and I 've alius thought it was his 
mother's doin's. 

Now, a few months afore this I 'd be'n to 
Vincennes, and I was jist a-tellin' Ezry what 
they was a-astin' fer ther liquor there — fer I 'd 
fetched a couple o' gallon home with me 'at 
I 'd paid six bits fer, and pore liquor at that : 
And I was a-tellin' about it, and old Ezry was 
a-sayin' what an oudacious figger that was, 
and how he could make money a-sellin' it fer 
half that price, and was a-goin' on a-braggin' 
about his liquor — and it was a good article — fer 
new whisky, — and jist then Steve comes in, 
jist as Bills was a-sayin' 'at a man 'at would n't 
drink that whisky wasn't no man at all. So, 
of course, when they ast Steve to take some 
and he told 'em no, 'at he was much obleeged, 
Bills was kind o' tuck down, you understand, 
and had to say somepin' ; and says he, ''I 
reckon you ain't no better 'n the rest of us, and 
we 've be^n a-drinkin' of it." But Steve did n't 
let on like he noticed Bills at all, and rech 



no AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. 

and shuck hands with the other boys and ast 
how they was all a-comin' on. 

I seed Bills was riled, and more 'n likely 
wanted trouble ; and shore enough, he went on 
to say, kind o' snarlin' like, 'at '' he M knowed 
o' men in his day 'at had be'n licked fer re- 
fusin' to drink when their betters ast 'em ; " 
and said furder 'at '' a lickin' was n't none too 
good fer anybody 'at would refuse liquor like 
that o' Ezry's, and in his own house too " — er 
buildin\ ruther. Ezry shuck his head at him, 
but I seed 'at Bills was bound fer a quarrel, and 
I winks at Steve, as much as to say, '' Don'tyou 
let himbAiUy you ; you '11 find your brother here 
to see you have fair play ! " /was a-feelin' my 
oats some about then, and Steve seed I was, 
and looked so sorry like, and like his mother, 
'at I jist thought, '^ I kin fight fer you, and die 
fer you, 'cause you're wuth it!" — And I 
did n't someway feel like it would amount to 
much ef I did die er git killed er somepin' on 
his account. I seed Steve was mighty white 
around the mouth and his eyes was a glitterin' 
like a snake's ; but Bills did n't seem to take 
warnin', but went on to say 'at he 'd knowed 
boys 'at loved the'r mothers so well they 
couldn't drink nothin' stronger 'n milk."— 
And then you 'd ort o' seed Steve's coat fly 
off*, jist like it wanted to git out of his way, and 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 1 1 1 

give the boy room accordin' ^o his stren'th. 
I seed Bills grab a piece o' seantlin' jist in 
time to ketch his arm as he struck at Steve, — 
fer Steve was a-comin' fer him dangerss. 
But they 'd ketched Steve from behind jist 
then ; and Bills turned fer me. I seed him 
draw back, and I seed Steve a-scufflin' to 
ketch his arm ; but he did n't reach it quite in 
time to do me no good. It must a-come awful 
suddent. The first I ricollect was a roarin' 
and a buzzin' in my ears, and when I kind o' 
come a little better to, and crawled up and 
peeked over the saw-log I was a-layin' the 
other side of, I seed a couple clinched and a 
roUin' over and over, and a-makin' the chips 
and saw-dust fly, now I tell you ! Bills and 
Steve it was — head and tail, tooth and toe- 
nail, and a-bleedin' like good fellers. I seed 
a gash o' some kind in Bills's head, and Steve 
was purty well tuckered, and a-pantin' like a 
lizard ; and I made a rush in, and one o' the 
Carter boys grabbed me and told me to jist 
keep cool ; 'at Steve did n't need no he'p, and 
they might need me to keep Bills's friends off 
ef they made a rush. By this time Steve had 
whirlt Bills, and was a-jist a-gittin' in a fair 
way to finish him up in good style, when Wes- 
ley Morris run in — I seed him do it — run in, 
and afore we could ketch him he struck Steve 



112 AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. 

a deadener in the butt o' the ear and knocked 
him as limber as a rag. And then Bills whirlt 
Steve and got him by the throat, and Ben 
Carter and me and old Ezry closed in — Carter 
tackled Morris, and Ezry and me grabs Bills — 
and as old Ezry grabbed him to pull him off. 
Bills kind o' give him a side swipe o' some 
kind and knocked him — I don't know how 
fer ! And jist then Carter and Morris come 
a-scufflin' back'ards right amongst us, and 
Carter throwed him right acrost Bills and 
Steve. Well, it ain't fair, and I don't like to 
tell it, but I seed it was the last chance and I 
tuck advantage of it :- — As Wesley and Ben 
fell it pulled Bills down in a kind o' twist, 
don't you understand, so 's he could n't he'p 
hisse'f, yit still a-clinchin' Steve by the throat, 
and him black in the face : Well, as they fell I 
grabbed up a little hick'ry limb, not bigger 'n 
my two thumbs, and I struck Bills a little tap 
kind o' over the back of his head like, and 
blame me ef he did n't keel over like a stuck 
pig — and not any too soon, nuther, fer he had 
Steve's chunk as nigh put out as you ever 
seed a man's, to come to agin. But he was 
up th'reckly and ready to a-went at it ef Bills 
could a-come to the scratch ; but Mister Bills 
he was n't in no fix to try it over ! After a- 
waitin' awhile fer him to come to, and him 



AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. II3 

not a-comin' to, we concluded 'at we 'd better 
he'p him, maybe. And we worked with him, 
and washed him, and drenched him with 
whisky, but it 'peared like it wasn't no use: 
He jist laid there with his eyes about half shet, 
and a-breathin' like a boss when he 's bad 
sceart ; and I '11 be dad-limbed ef I do n't be- 
lieve he'd a-died on our hands ef it hadn't 
a-happened old Doc Zions come a-ridin' past 
on his way home from the Murdock neighber- 
hood, where they was a-havin' sich a time 
with the milk-sick. And he examined Bills, 
and had him laid on a plank and carried down 
to the house — 'bout a mild, I reckon, from the 
mill. Looked kind o' curous to see Steve a- 
heppln' pack the feller, after his nearly chok- 
in' him to death. Oh, it was a bloody fight, 
I tell you ! W'y, ther was n't a man in the 
mill 'at did n't have a black eye er somepin' ; 
and old Ezry, where Bills hit him, had his 
nose broke, and was as bloody as a butcher. 
And you 'd ort a-seed the women-folks when 
our p'session come a-bringin' Bills in. I never 
seed anybody take on like Bills's woman. It 
was distressin' ; it was, indeed. — Went into 
hysterics, she did; and we thought fer awhile 
she 'd gone plum crazy, fer she cried so pitiful 
over him, and called him ''Charley ! Charley !" 
'stid of his right name, and went on, clean out 

8 



114 AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. 

of her head, tel she finally jist fainted clean 
away. 

Fer three weeks Bills laid betwixt life and 
death, and that woman set by him night and 
day, and tended him as patient as a' angel — 
and she was a' angel, too ; and he 'd a-never 
lived to bother nobody agin ef it had n't a- 
be'n fer Annie, as he called her. Zions said 
ther was a 'brazure of the — some kind o' p'tu- 
bernce, and ef he M a-be^n struck jist a quarter 
of a' inch below — jist a quarter of a' inch — 
he 'd a-be'n a dead man. And I 've sence 
wished — not 'at I want the life of a human 
bein' to account fer, on'y? well, no odds — I've 
sence wished 'at I had a-hit him jist a quarter 
of a' inch below ! 

Well, of course, them days ther wasn't 
no law o' no account, and nothin' was ever 
done about it. So Steve and me got our 
grindin', and talked the matter over with Ezry 
and the boys. Ezry said he was a-goin' to 
do all he could fer Bills, 'cause he was a 
good hand, and when he was n't drinkin' ther 
was n't no peaceabler man in the settlement. 
I kind o' suspicioned what was up, but I said 
nothin' then. And Ezry said furder, as we was 
about drivin' off, that Bills was a despert feller, 
and it was best to kind o' humor him a little. 
" And you must kind o^ be on your guard,'* 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 



115 



he says, " and I '11 watch him and ef anything 
happens 'at I git wind of I '11 let you know%" 
he says ; and so we put out fer home. 

Mother tuck on awful about it. You see, 
she thought she 'd be'n the whole blame of it, 
'cause the Sunday afore that her and Steve 
had went to meetin', and they got there late, 
and the house was crowded, and Steve had 
ast Bills to give up his seat to Mother, and he 
would n't do it, and said somepin' 'at disturbed 
the prayin', and the preacher prayed 'at the 
feller 'at was a-makin' the disturbance might 
be forgive ; and that riled Bills so he got up 
and left, and hung around till it broke up, so 's 
he could git a chance at Steve to pick a fight. 
And he did try it, and dared Steve and double- 
dared him fer a fight, but Mother begged so 
hard 'at she kep' him out of it. Steve said 
'at he 'd a-told me all about it on the way to 
Ezry's, on'y he 'd promised Mother, you know, 
not to say nothin' to me. 

Ezry was over at our house about six weeks 
after the fight, appearantly as happy as you 
please. We ast him how him and Bills was 
a-makin' it, and he said firstrate ; said 'at 
Bills was jist a-doin' splendid ; said he 'd got 
moved in his new house 'at he 'd fixed up fer 
him, and ever' thing was a-goin' on as smooth 



Il6 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

as could be ; and Bills and the boys was on 
better terms 'n ever ; and says he, " As fer as 
you and Steve 's concerned, Bills don't 'pear 
to bear you no ill feelin's, and says as fer as 
he 's concerned the thing 's settled." ''Well," 
says I, " Ezry, I hope so; but I can't he'p 
but think ther 's somepin' at the bottom of all 
this ;" and says I, " I do n't think it 's in Bills 
to ever amount to anything good ;" and says 
I, " It 's my opinion ther 's a dog in the well, 
and now you mark it ! " 

Well, he said he was n't jist easy^ but maybe 
he 'd come out all right ; said he could n't 
turn the feller off — he had n't the heart to do 
that, with that-air pore, dilicate woman o' his, 
and the baby. And then he went on to tell 
what a smart sort o' woman Bills's wife was, — 
one of the nicest little women he 'd ever laid 
eyes on, said she was ; said she was the kind- 
est thing, and the sweetest-tempered, and all 
— and the handiest woman 'bout the house, 
and 'bout sewin', and cookin', and the like, 
and all kmds o' housework ; and so good to 
the childern, and all ; and how they all got 
along so well ; and how proud she was of her 
baby, and alius a-goin' on about it and a-cryin' 
over it and a-carryin' on, and w^ould n't leave 
it out of her sight a minute. And Ezry said 
'at she could write so purty, and made sich 



AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. II7 

purty pictures fer the childern ; and how they 
all liked her better 'n ther own mother. And, 
sence she 'd moved, he said it seemed so 
lonesome like 'thout her about the house — 
like they 'd lost one o' ther own fambly ; said 
they did n't git to see her much now, on'y 
sometimes, when her man would be at work, 
she 'd run over fer awhile, and kiss all the 
childern and women-folks about the place, — 
the greatest hand fer the childern, she was ; 
tell 'em all sorts o' little stories, you know, 
and sing fer 'em; said 'at she could sing so 
sweet-like, 'at time and time agin she 'd break 
clean down in some song o' nuther, and her 
voice would trimble so mournful -like 'at 
you 'd find yourse'f a-cryin' afore you knowed 
it. And she used to coax Ezry's woman to 
let her take the childern home with her ; and 
they used to alius want to go, 'tel Bills come 
onc't while they was there, and they said he 
got to jawin' her fer a-makin' some to-do 
over the baby, and swore at her and tuck it 
away from her and whipped it fer cr3nn', and 
she cried and told him to whip her and not 
little Annie, and he said that was jist what he 
was a-doin'. And the childern was alius 
afear'd to go there any more after that — 
'fear'd he 'd come home and whip little Annie 
agin. Ezry said he jist done that to skeer 



ii8 

'em away — 'cause he did n't want a passel 
o' childern a-whoopin' and a-howlin' and 
a-trackin' 'round the house all the time. 

But, shore enough, Bills, after the fight, 
'peared like he 'd settled down, and went 
'bout his business so stiddy-like, and worked 
so well, the neighbers begin to think he was 
all right after all, and railly some got 
to likiii' him. But fer me, well, I was a 
leetle slow to argy 'at the feller was n't 
" a-possumin'." But the next time I went 
over to the mill — and Steve went with me — 
old Ezry come and met us, and said 'at Bills 
did n't have no hard feelin's ^iwe did n't, and 
'at he wanted us to fergive him ; said 'at Bills 
wanted him to tell us 'at he was sorry the way 
he 'd acted, and wanted us to fergive him. 
Well, I looked at Ezry, and we both looked 
at him, jist perfectly tuck back— the idee o' 
Bills a-wantin' anybody to fergive him ! And 
says I, " Ezry, what in the name o' common 
sense do you mean?" And says he, ''I 
mean jist what I say ; Bills jined meetin' last 
night and had 'em all a-prayin' fer him ; and 
we all had a glorious time^'^ says old Ezry; 
'' and his woman was there and jined, too, and 
prayed and shouted and tuck on to beat all ; 
and Bills got up and spoke and give in his 
experience, and said he'd be'n a bad man, 



AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. II9 

but, glory to God, them times was past and 
gone ; said 'at he wanted all of 'em to pray 
fer him, and he wanted to prove faithful, and 
wanted all his inemies to fergive him ; and 
prayed ^at you and Steve and your folks 
would fergive him, and ever'body 'at he ever 
wronged anyway." And old Ezry was a-goin' 
on, and his eyes a-sparklin', and a-rubbin' his 
hands, he w^as so excited and tickled over 
it, 'at Steve and me we jist stood there a- 
gawkin' like, tel Bills hisse'f come up and 
rech out one hand to Steve and one to me ; 
and Steve shuck with him kind o' oneasy like, 
and I — well, sir, I never felt cur'oser in my 
born days than I did that minute. The cold 
chills crep' over me, and I shuck as ef I had 
the agur, and I folded my hands behind me 
and I looked that feller square in the eye, 
and I tried to speak three or four times afore 
I could make it, and when I did, my voice 
was n't natchurl — sounded like a feller a- 
whisperin' through a tin horn er somepin'. — 
and I says, says I, " You 're a liar," slow and 
delibert. That was all. His eyes blazed a 
minute, and drapped ; and he turned, 'thout a 
word, and walked oft'. And Ezry says, " He 's 
in airnest ; I know he 's in airnest, er he 'd a- 
never a-tuck that ! " And so he went on, tel 
Anally Steve jined in, and betwixt 'em they 



120 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 

p'suaded me 'at I was in the wrong and the 
best thing to do was to make it all up, which 
I finally did. And Bills said 'at he M a-never 
a-felt jist right 'thout my friendship, fer he 'd 
wronged me, he said, and he 'd wronged 
Steve and Mother, too, and he wanted a 
chance, he said, o' makin' things straight 
agin. 

Well, a-goin' home, I do n't think Steve and 
me talked o' nothin' else but Bills— how airnest 
the feller acted 'bout it, and how, ef he zvasn't 
in airnest he 'd a-never a-swallered that Mie,' 
you see. That 's what walked my log, fer he 
could a-jist as easy a-knocked me higher 'n 
Kilgore's kite as he could to walk away 
'thout a-doin' of it. 

Mother was awful tickled when she heerd 
about it, fer she 'd had an idee 'at we 'd have 
trouble afore we got back, and a-gitten home 
safe, and a-bringin^ the news 'bout Bills a-jinin' 
church and all, tickled her so 'at she mighty 
nigh shouted fer joy. You see. Mother was 
a' old church-member all her life ; and I do n't 
think she ever missed a sermont er a prayer- 
meetin' 'at she could possibly git to — rain er 
shine, wet er dry. When ther was a meetin' of 
any kind a-goin' on, go she would, and nothin' 
short o' sickness in the fambly , er knowin' noth- 
in' of it would stop her! And clean up to her 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 121 

dyin' day she was a God-fearin' and consistent 
Christian ef ther ever was one. I mind now 
when she was tuck with her last spell and laid 
bedfast fer eighteen months, she used to tell the 
preacher, when he 'd come to see her and pray 
and go on, 'at she could die happy ef she could 
on'y be with 'em all agin in their love-feasts and 
revivals. She was purty low then, and had 
be'n a-failin' fast fer a day er two ; and that 
day they 'd be'n a-holdin' service at the house. 
It was her request, you know, and the neigh- 
bers had congergated and was a-prayin' and 
a-singin' her favorite hymns — one in p'tick- 
ler, " God moves in a mysterous way his 
wunders to p'form," and 'bout his " Walkin' 
on the sea and a-ridin' of the storm." — Well, 
anyway, they 'd be'n a-singin' that hymn fer 
her — she used to sing that 'n so much, I ric- 
oUect as fer back as I kin remember ; and I 
mind how it used to make me feel so lone- 
some-like and solemn^ do n't j^ou know, — 
when I 'd be a-knockin' round the place along 
of evenin's, and she 'd be a-milkin', and I 'd 
hear her, at my feedin', way off by myse'f, 
and it alius somehow made me feel like a 
feller 'd ort o' try and live as nigh right as the 
law allows, and that 's about my doctern yit. 
Well, as I was a-goin' on to say, they 'd jist fin- 
ished that old hymn, and Granny LowTy was 



122 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

jist a-goin to lead in prayer, when I noticed 
mother kind o' tried to turn herse'f in bed, 
and smiled so weak and faint-like, and looked 
at me, with her lips a-kind o' movin* ; and I 
thought maybe she wanted another dos't of 
her syrup 'at Ezry's woman had fixed up fer 
her, and I kind o' stooped down over her and 
ast her if she wanted anything. " Yes," she 
says, and nodded, and her voice sounded so 
low and solemn and so fer away-like 'at I 
knowed she 'd never take no more medicine 
on this airth. And I tried to ast her what it 
was she wanted, but I could n't say nothin' ; 
my throat hurt me, and I felt the warm tears 
a-boolgin' up, and her kind old face a-glim- 
merin' a-way so pale-like afore my eyes, and 
still a-smilin' up so lovin' and forgivin' and so 
good 'at it made me think so fer back in the 
past I seemed to be a little boy agin ; and 
seemed like her thin gray hair was brown, 
and a-shinin' in the sun as it used to do when 
she belt me on her shoulder in the open door, 
when Father was a-livin' and we used to go to 
meet him at the bars ; seemed like her face was 
young agin, and a-smilin' like it alius used to 
be, and her eyes as full o' hope and happiness 
as afore they ever looked on grief er ever shed 
a tear. And I thought of all the trouble 
they had saw on my account, and of all the 



AN OLD settler's STORY. 1 23 

lovin' words her lips had said, and of all the 
thousand things her pore old hands had done 
fer me 'at I never even thanked her fer ; 
and how I loved her better 'n all the world 
besides, and would be so lonesome ef she 
went away — Lord ! I can 't tell you what I 
did n't think and feel and see. And I knelt 
down by her, and she whispered then fer 
Steven, and he come, and we kissed her — and 
she died — a smilin' like a child — ^jist like a 
child. 

Well — well ! 'Pears like I 'm alius a-run- 
nin' into somepin' else. I wisht I could tell 
a story 'thout driftin' off m matters 'at hain't 
no livin' thing to do wath what I started out 
with. I try to keep from thinkin' of afflictions 
and the like, 'cause sich is bound to come to 
the best of us; but a feller's ricollection will 
bring 'em up, and I reckon it 'd ort 'o be er it 
wouldn't be ; and I 've thought, sometimes, it 
was done may be to kind o' admonish a feller, 
as the Good Book says, of how good a world 'd 
be 'thout no sorrow in it. 

Where was I ? Oh, yes, I ricollect ; — about 
Bills a-jinin' church. Well, sir, ther' wasn't 
a better-actin' feller and more religious-like 
in all the neighberhood. Spoke in meetin's, 
he did, and tuck a' active part in all religious 
doin's, and, in factj was jist as square a man, 



124 AK OLD SETTLER S STORY, 

appearantly, as the preacher hisse'f. And 
about six er eight weeks after he 'd jined, they 
got up another revival, and things run high. 
Ther' was a big excitement, and ever'body 
was a'tendin' from fer and near. Bills and 
Ezry got the mill-hands to go, and did n't talk 
o' nothin' but religion. People thought awhile 
'at old Ezry 'd turn preacher, he got so inter- 
ested 'bout church matters. He was easy ex- 
cited 'bout anything; and when he went into 
a thing it was in dead earnest, shore ! — " jist 
flew off the handle," as I heerd a comical 
feller git oft^onct. And him and Bills was up 
and at it ever' night — prayin' and shoutin' at 
the top o' the'r voice. Them railly did seem 
like good times — when ever'body jined to- 
gether, and prayed and shouted ho-sanner, 
and danced around together, and hugged each 
other like they was so full o' glory they jist 
couldn't he'p theirse'v's— that 's the reason I 
jined ; it looked so kind o' whole-souled-like 
and good, you understand. But la ! I did n't 
hold out on'y fer a little while, and no wunder ! 
Well, about them times Bills w^as tuck down 
with the agur ; first got to chillin' ever'-other- 
day, then ever' day, and harder and harder, 
tel sometimes he 'd be obleeged to stay away 
from meetin' on account of it. And onc't I 
was at meetin' when he told about it, and how 



AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. 1 25 

when he could n't be with 'em he alius prayed 
at home, and he said'at he believed his prayers 
was answered, fer onc't he 'd prayed fer a new 
outpourin' of the Holy Sperit, and that very 
night ther' was three new jiners. And another 
time he said 'at he 'd prayed 'at Wesley Mor- 
ris would jine, and lo and behold you ! he did 
jine, and the very night 'at he prayed he would. 

Well, the night I 'm a-speakin' of he 'd had 
a chill the day afore and could n't go that 
night, and was in bed when Ezry druv past 
fer him ; said he'd like to go, but had a high 
fever and could n't. And then Ezry's woman 
ast him ef he was too sick to spare Annie ; and 
he said no, they could take her and the baby : 
and told her to fix his medicine so 's he could 
reach it 'thout gittin' out o' bed, and he 'd git 
along 'thout her. And so she tuck the baby 
and went along with Ezry and his folks. 

I was at meetin' that night and ricollect 'em 
comin' in. Annie got a seat jist behind me — 
Steve give her his'n and stood up ; and I ric- 
ollect a-astin' her how Bills was a-gittin' along 
with the agur ; and little Annie, the baby, kep' 
a-pullin' my hair and a-crowin' tel finally she 
went to sleep ; and Steve ast her mother to let 
him hold her — cutest little thing you ever laid 
eyes on, and the very pictur' of her mother. 

Old Daddy Barker preached that night, and 



126 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

a mighty good sermont. His text, ef I ricollect 
right, was " workin' out your own salvation ;" 
and when I listen to preachers nowadays in 
ther big churches and ther fine pulpits, I alius 
think o' Daddy Barker, and kind o' some way 
wisht the old times could come agin, with the 
old log meetin'-house with its puncheon floor 
and the chinkin' in the walls, and old Daddy 
Barker in the pulpit. He 'd make you feel 
'at the Lord could make hissef at home there, 
and find jist as abundant comfort in the old 
log house as he could in any of your fine-fur- 
nished churches 'at you can't set down in 
'thout payin' fer the privilege, like it was a 
theater. 

Ezry had his two little girls jine that night, 
and I ricollect the preacher made sich a purty 
prayer about the Savior a-cotin' from the Bible 
'bout " Suffer little childern to come unto me " 
and all ; and talked so purty about the jedg- 
ment day, and mothers a-meetin' the'r little 
ones there and all ; and went on tel ther was n't 
a dry eye in the house — and jist as he was a- 
windin' up, Abe Riggers stuck his head in at 
the door and hollered " fire " loud as he could 
yell. We all rushed out, a-thinkin' it was the 
meetin'-house ; but he hollered it was the mill ; 
and shore enough, away off' to the southards 
we could see the light acrost the woods, and 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 1 27 

see the blaze a-lickin' up above the trees. I 
seed old Ezry as he come a-scufflin' through 
the crowd ; and we put out together fer it. 
Well, it was two mild to the mill, but by the 
time we 'd half way got there, we could tell it 
wasn't the mill a-burnin', 'at the fire was 
furder to the left, and that was Ezry's house ; 
and by the time we got there it was n't much 
use. We pitched into the household goods, 
and got out the beddin', and the furnitur' and 
cheers and the like o' that ; saved the clock and 
a bedstid, and got the bureau purt' nigh out 
when they hollered to us 'at the roof was a 
cavin' in, and we had to leave it; well, we'd 
tuck the drawers out, all but the big one, and 
that was locked ; and it and all in it went with 
the buildin', and that was a big loss : All the 
money 'at Ezry was a-layin' by was in that-air 
drawer, and a lot o' keepsakes and trinkets 'at 
Ezry's woman said she would n't a-parted with 
fer the world and all. 

I never seed a troubleder fambly than they 
was. It jist 'peared like old Ezry give clean 
down, and the women and childern a-cryin' 
and a-takin' on. It looked jist awful — shore 's 
you're born! — Losin' ever 'thing they'd 
worked so hard fer — and there it was, purt' 
nigh midnight, and a fambly, jist a little while 



128 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

ago all so happy, and now with no home to go 
to ner nothin' ! 

It was arranged fer Ezry's to move in with 
Bills — that was about the on'y chance — on'y 
one room and a loft ; but Bills said they could 
manage some way, fer a while anyhow. 

Bills said he seed the fire when it first started, 
and could a-put it out ef he 'd on'y be'n strong 
enough to git there ; said he started twic't to 
go, but was too weak and had to go back to bed 
agin ; said it was a-blazin' in the kitchen roof 
when he first seed it. So the gineral conclu- 
sion 'at we all come to was — it must a-ketched 
from the flue. 

It was too late in the Fall then to think o' 
buildin' even the onryest kind o' shanty, and 
so Ezry moved in with Bills. And Bills 
used to say ef it had n't a-be'n fer Ezry he 'd 
a-never a-had no house, ner nuthin' to put in 
it, nuther. You see, all the household goods 
'at Bills had in the world he 'd got of Ezry, 
and he 'lowed he 'd be a triflin' whelp ef he 
did n't do all in his power to make Ezry per- 
feckly at home 's long as he wanted to stay 
there. And together they managed to make 
room fer 'em all, by a-buildin' a kind o' shed- 
like to the main house, intendin' to build 
when Spring come. And ever'thing went 



AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. 1 29 

along first-rate, I guess ; never heerd no corn- 
plaints — that is, p'ticular. 

Ezry was kind o' down fer a long time, 
though ; did n't like to talk about his trouble 
much, and did n't 'tend meetin' much, like he 
used to ; said it made him think 'bout his house 
burnin', and he did n't feel safe to lose sight o' 
the mill. And the meetin's kind o' broke up 
altogether that winter. Almost broke up re- 
ligious doin's, it did. 'S long as I Ve lived 
here I never seed jist sich a slack in religion as 
ther' was that winter ; and 'fore then, I kin mind 
the time when ther' was n't a night the whole 
endurin' winter when they did n't have preach- 
in' er prayer-meetin' o' some kind a-goin' on. 
W'y, I ricollect one night in p'ticular — the 
coldest night, whooh! And somebody had 
stold the meetin'-house door, and they was 
obleeged to preach 'thout it. And the wind 
blowed in so they had to hold the'r hats afore 
the candles, and then onc't-in-a-while they'd 
git slufFed out. And the snow drifted in so it 
was jist like settin' out doors ; and they had 
to stand up when they prayed — ^yessir ! stood 
up to pray. I noticed that night they was a' 
oncommon lot o' jiners, and I believe to this 
day 'at most of 'em jined jist to git up wher' 
the stove was. Lots o' folks had the'r feet 
froze right in meetin' ; and Steve come home 
9 



130 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY. 

with his ears froze like they was whittled out o' 
bone ; and he said 'at Mary Madahne Wells's 
feet was froze, and she had two pair o' socks 
on over her shoes. Oh, it was cold, now I 
tell you ! 

They run the mill part o' that winter — part 
they could n't. And they did n't work to say 
stiddy tel along in Aprile, and then ther' was 
snow on the ground yit — in the shadders — and 
the ground froze, so you could n't hardly dig a 
grave. But at last they got to kind o' jiggin' 
along agin. Plenty to do ther' was ; and old 
Ezry was mighty tickled, too ; 'peared to re- 
cruit right up like. Ezry was alius best tickled 
when things was a-stirrin', and then he was 
a-gittin' ready fer buildin', you know , wanted 
a house of his own, he said — and of course it 
was n't adzackly like home, all cluttered up 
as they was there at Bills's. They got along 
mighty well, though, together ; and the wom- 
en-folks and childern got along the best in the^ 
world. Ezry's woman used to say she never 
laid eyes on jist sich another woman as Annie 
was. Said it was jist as good as a winter's 
schoolin' fer the childern ; said her two little 
girls had learnt to read, and did n't know the'r 
a-b abs afore Annie learnt 'em ; well, the old- 
est one, Mary Patience, she did know her 
letters, I guess — fourteen year old, she was; 



AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. I3I 

but Mandy, the youngest, had never seed in- 
side a book afore that winter ; and the way she 
learnt was jist su'prisin'. She was puny-like 
and frail-lookin' alius, but everybody 'lowed 
she was a heap smarter 'n Mary Patience, and 
she was ; and in my opinion she railly had 
more sense 'n all the rest o' the childern put 
together, 'bout books and cipherin' and aretii- 
metic, and the like ; and John Wesley, the 
oldest of 'em, he got to teachin' at last, when 
he growed up, — but, la ! he could n't write his 
own name so 's you could read it. I alius 
thought ther was a good 'eal of old Ezry in 
John Wesley. Liked to romance 'round with 
the youngsters 'most too well. — Spiled him 
fer teachin', I alius thought; fer instance, ef 
a scholard said somepin' funny in school, John- 
Wes he 'd jist have to have his laugh out with 
the rest, and it was jist fun fer the boys, you 
know, to go to school to him. Alius in fer 
spellin' -matches and the like, and learnin' 
songs and sich. I ricoUect he give a' exhibi- 
tion onc't, one winter, and I '11 never fergit it, 
I reckon. 

The school-house would on'y hold 'bout 
forty, comfortable, and that night ther' was 
up'ards of a hunderd er more — ^jist crammed 
and jammed ! And the benches was piled 
back so 's to make room fer the flatform they 'd 



132 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 

built to make the'r speeches and dialogues on ; 
and fellers a-settin' up on them back seats, 
the'r heads was clean aginst the j'ist. It was 
a low ceilin', anyhow, and o' course them 'at 
tuck a part in the doin's was way up, too. 
Janey Thompson had to give up her part in a 
dialogue, 'cause she looked so tall she was 
afeard the congergation would laugh at her ; 
and they could n't git her to come out and sing 
in the openin^ song 'thout lettin' her set down 
first and git ready 'fore they pulled the curtain. 
You see, they had sheets sewed together, and 
fixed on a string some way, to slide back'ards 
and for'ards, do n't you know. But they was 
a big bother to 'em — could n't git 'em to work 
like. Ever' time they 'd git 'em slid 'bout half 
way acrost, somepin' would ketch, and they'd 
have to stop and fool with 'em awhile 'fore 
they could git 'em the balance o' the way 
acrost. Well, finally, t'ords the last, they jist 
kep' 'em drawed back all the time. It was a 
pore affair, and spiled purt nigh ever' piece ; 
but the scholards all wanted it fixed thataway, 
the teacher said, in a few appropert remarks he 
made when the thing was over. Well, I was a 
settin' in the back part o' the house on them 
high benches, and my head was jist even with 
them on the flatform, and the lights was pore, 
and wher' the string was stretched fer the 



AN OLD settler's STORY. 1 33 

curtain to slide on it looked like the p'formers 
was strung on it. And when Lige Boyer's 
boy was a-speakin' — kind o' mumbled it, you 
know, and you could n't half hear — it looked 
fer the world like he was a-chawin' on that-air 
string ; and some devilish feller ^lowed ef 
he 'd chaw it clean in two it 'd be a good thing 
fer the balance. After that they all sung a 
sleigh-ridin' song, and it was right purty, the 
way they got it off. Had a passel o' sleigh- 
bells they 'd ring ever' onc't-in-a-while, and 
it sounded purty — shore ! 

Then Hunicut's girl, Marindy, read a letter 
'bout winter, and what fun the youngsters alius 
had in winter time, a-sleighin' and the like, 
and spellin'-matches, and huskin'-bees, and 
all. Purty good, it was, and made a feller 
think o' old times. Well, that was about the 
best thing ther' was done that night ; but ever'- 
body said the teacher wrote it fer her ; and I 
wouldn't be su'prised much, fer they was 
married not long afterwards. I expect he 
wrote it fer her. — Would n't put it past Wes ! 

They had a dialogue, too, 'at was purty 
good. Little Bob Arnold was all fixed up — 
had on his pap's old bell-crowned hat, the one 
he was married in. Well, I jist thought die 
I would when I seed that old hat and called 
to mind the night his pap was married, and 



134 ^^ ^^^ SETTLER'S. STORY. 

we all got him a little how-come-you-so on 
some left-handed cider 'at had be'n a-layin' in 
a whisky-bar'l tel it was strong enough to bear 
up a' egg. I kin ricollect now jist how he 
looked in that hat, when it was all new, you 
know, and a-settin on the back of his head, and 
his hair in his eyes ; and sich hair ! — as red as 
git-out — and his little black eyes a-shinin' like 
beads. Well sir, you 'd a-died to a-seed him 
a-dancin'. We danced all night that night, 
and would a-be'n a-dancin' yit, I reckon, ef 
the fiddler had n't a-give out. Wash Lowry 
w^as a-fiddlin' fer us ; and along to'rds three 
or four in the mornin' Wash was purty well 
fagged out. You see. Wash could never play 
fer a dance er nothin' 'thout a-drinkin' more 
er less, and when he got to a certain pitch you 
could n't git nothin' out o' him but " Barbary 
Allan ; " so at last he struck up on that, and 
jist kep' it up and kep' it up, and nobody 
could n't git nothin' else out of him ! 

Now, anybody 'at ever danced knows 'at 
'' Barbary Allan" hain't no tune to dance 
by, no way you can fix it ; and, o' course, the 
boys seed at onc't the'r fun was gone ef they 
could n't git him on another tune. — And they M 
coax and beg and plead with him, and maybe 
git him started on ''The Wind Blows over the 
Barley," and 'bout the time they 'd git to 



AN OLD settler's STORY. 1 35 

knockin' it down agin purty lively, he 'd go 
to sawin' away on ^'Barbary Allan" — and 
I 'U-be-switched-to-death ef that feller did n't 
set there and play hisse'f sound asleep on 
''Barbary Allan," and we had to wake him 
up afore he 'd quit ! Now, that 's jes' a plum' 
facts* And ther' was n't a better fiddler no- 
wheres than Wash Lowry, when he was at his- 
se'f. I 've heerd a good many fiddlers in my 
day, and I never heerd one yit 'at could play 
my style o' fiddlin' ekal to Wash Lowry. You 
see. Wash did n't play none o' this-here new- 
fangled music — nothin' but the old tunes, you 
understand, '^The Forked Deer," and ''Old 
Fat Gal," and '' Gray Eagle," and the like. 
Now, them's music ! Used to like to hear 
Wash play " Gray Eagle." He could come as 
nigh a-makin' that old tune talk as ever you 
heerd ! Used to think a heap o' his fiddle — and 
he had a good one, shore. I 've heard him say, 
time and time agin, 'at a five-dollar gold-piece 
would n't buy it, and I knowed him my-se'f to 
refuse a calf fer it onc't — yessir, a yearland 
calf— and the feller offered him a double-bar'l'd 
pistol to boot, and blame ef he 'd take it ; said 
he 'd ruther part with anything else he owned 
than his fiddle. — But here I am, clean out o' 
the furry agin. Oh, yes ; I was a-tellin' about 
little Bob, with that old hat ; and he had on a 



136 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

swaller-tail coat and a lot o' fixin's, a-actin' 
like he was 'squire ; and he had him a great 
long beard made out o' corn-silks, and you 
would n't a-knowed him ef it was n't fer his 
voice. Well, he was a-p'tendin' he was a 
'squire a-tryin' some kind o^ law-suit, you see ; 
and John Wesley he was the defendunt, and 
Joney Wiles, I believe it was, played like he 
was the plaintive. And they 'd had a fallin' 
out 'bout some land, and was a-lawin' fer p'ses- 
sion, you understand. Well, Bob he made out 
it was a mighty bad case when John-Wes comes 
to consult him about it, and tells him ef a little 
'-'-'nt o' law was left out he thought he could git 
the land fer him. And then John-Wes bribes 
him, you understand, to leave out the p'int o' 
law, and the 'squire says he '11 do all he kin, 
and so John-Wes goes out a feelin' purty good. 
Then Wiles comes in to consult the 'squire, 
don't you see. And the 'squire tells hijn the 
same tale he told John Wesley. So Wiles bribes 
him to leave out the p'int o' law in his favor, 
do n't you know. So when the case is tried he 
decides in favor o' John-Wes, a-tellin' Wiles 
some cock-and-bull story 'bout havin' to man- 
age it thataway so 's to git the case mixed so 's 
he could git it fer him shore ; and posts him to 
sue fer change of venue er somepin', — any- 
way, Wiles gits a new trial, and then the 'squire 



AN OLD settler's STORY. 137 

decides in hisidcwor^ and tells John-Wes another 
trial will fix it in his favor, and so on. — And so 
it goes on tel, anyway, he gits holt o' the land 
hisse'f and all ther money besides, and leaves 
them to hold the bag ! Wellsir, it was purty 
well got up ; and they said it was John-Wes's 
doin's, and I 'low it was — he was a good hand 
at anything o' that sort, and knowed how to 
make fun. — But I Ve be'n a tellin' you purty 
much everything but what I started out with, 
and I '11 try and hurry through, 'cause I know 
you 're tired. 

'Long 'bout the beginin' o' summer, things 
had got back to purty much the old way. The 
boys round was a-gittin' devilish, and o' nights 
'specially ther' was a sight o' meanness a-goin' 
on. The mill-hands, most of 'em, was mixed 
up in it — Coke and Morris, and them 'at had 
jined meetin' 'long in the winter, had all back- 
slid, and was a-drinkin^ and carousin' 'round 
worse 'n ever. 

People, perdicted 'at Bills would backslide, 
but he belt on faithful, to all appearance ; 
said he liked to see a feller when he made up 
his mind to do right, he liked to see him do 
it, and not go back on his word ; and even 
went so fer as to tell Ezry ef they did n't put a 
stop to it he 'd quit the neighberhood and go 
some'rs else. And Bills was Ezry's head man 



138 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

then, and he could n't a-got along 'thout him ; 
and I b'lieve ef Bills had a-said the word old 
Ezry would a-turned off ever' hand he had. 
He got SO he jist left ever'thing to Bills. Ben 
Carter was turned off fer somepin', and no- 
body ever knowed w^hat. Bills and him had 
never got along jist right sence the fight. 

Ben was with this set I was a-tellin' you 
'bout, and they M got him to drinkin^ and in 
trouble, o' course. I 'd knowed Ben well 
enough to know he would n't do nothin' onry ef 
he was n't agged on, and ef he ever was mixed 
up in anything o' the kind Wes Morris and 
John Coke was at the bottom of it, and I take 
notice they was n't turned off when Ben was. 

One night the crowd was out, and Ben 
amongst 'em, o' course. — Sence he'd be'n 
turned off he 'd be'n a-drinkin', — and I never 
blamed him much ; he was so good-hearted 
like and easy led off, and I alius b'lieved it 
wasn't his own doin's. 

Well, this night they cut up awful, and ef 
ther was one fight ther was a dozend ; and 
when all the devilment was done they could 
do, they started on a stealin' expedition, and 
stold a loto' chickens and tuck 'em to the mill 
to roast-'em ; and, to make a long story short, 
that night the mill burnt clean to the ground. 
And the whole pack of 'em cologued together 



AN OLD settler's STORY. 139 

aginst Carter to saddle it onto him ; claimed 
'at they left Ben there at the mill 'bout twelve 
o'clock — which was a fact, fer he was dead 
drunk and could n't git away. Steve stumbled 
over him while the mill was a-burnin' and drug 
him out afore he knowed what was a-goin' on, 
and it was all plain enough to Steve 'at Ben 
didn't have no hand in the firin' of it. But 
I '11 tell you he sobered up mighty suddent 
when he seed what was a-goin' on, and heerd 
the neighbors a-hoUerin', and a-threatenin', 
and a-goin^ on ! — fer it seemed to be the gin- 
erl idee 'at the buildin^ was fired a-purpose. 
And says Ben to Steve, says he, " I expect 
I '11 have to say good-bye to you, fer they 've 
got me in a ticklish place ! I kin see through 
it all now, when it 's too late ! " And jist then 
Wesley Morris hollers out, ''Where's Ben 
Carter? ^^ and started to'rds where me and 
Ben and Steve was a-standin' ; and Ben says, 
wild like, " Don't you tw^o fellers ever think 
it was my doings," and whispers " Good-bye," 
and started off, and when we turned, Wesley 
Morris was a-layin' flat of his back, and we 
heerd Carter yell to the crowd 'af that man" — 
meanin' Morris — " needed lookin^ after worse 
than he did," and another minute he plunged 
into the river and swum acrost ; and we all 
stood and watched him in the fiickerin' light 



140 AN OLD SETTLERS S STORY. 

tel he clum out on t'other bank ; and 'at was 
last anybody ever seed o' Ben Carter! 

It must a-be'n about three o'clock in the 
mornin' by this time, and the mill then was jist 
a-smoulderin' to ashes— fer it was as dry as 
tinder and burnt like a flash^ — and jist as a 
party was a-talkin' o' organizin' and follerin' 
Carter, we heerd a yell 'at I '11 never fergit ef 
I'd live tel another flood. Old Ezry, it was, 
as white as a corpse, and with the blood a- 
streamin' out of a gash in his forehead, and 
his clothes half on, come a-rushin' into the 
crowd and a-hoUerin' fire and murder ever' 
jump. " My house is a-burnin', and my folks 
is all a-bein' murdered while you 're a-standin' 
here I And Bills done it ! Bills done it ! '' he 
hollered, as he headed the crowd and started 
back fer home. '' Bills done it ! I caught him at 
it ; and he would a-murdered me in cold blood 
ef it had n't a-be'n fer his woman. He knocked 
me down, and had me tied to a bed-post in 
the kitchen afore I come to. And his woman 
cut me loose and told me to run fer he'p ; and 
says I, ' Where 's Bills?' and she says, 'He's 
after me by this time.' And jist then we heerd 
Bills holler, and we looked, and he was a- 
standin' out in the clearin' in front o' the house, 
with little Annie in his arms ; and he hollered 
would n't she like to kiss the baby good-bye. 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 141 

And she hollered My God ! fer me to save 
little Annie, and fainted clean dead away. 
And I heerd the roof a-crackin% and grabbed 
her up and packed her out jist in time. And 
when I looked up, Bills hollered out agin, and 
says, 'Ezry,* he says, 'You kin begin to kind 
o' git an idee o' what a good feller I am ! And 
ef you had n't a-caught me you 'd a-never a- 
knowed it, and ' Brother Williams' wouldn't 
a-be^n called away to another app'intment like 
he is.' And says he, ' Now, ef you foller me 
I ^11 finish you shore ! — You 're safe now, fer I 
hain 't got time to waste on you furder.^ And 
jist then his woman kind o' come to her senses 
agin and hollered fer little Annie, and the 
child heerd her and helt out its little arms to 
go to her, and hollered ' Mother ! Mother ! ' 
And Bills says, 'Dam your mother! ef it 
had n't a-be'n fer her I 'd a-be'n all right. 
And dam you too ! ' he says to me, — ' This '11 
pay you fer that lick you struck me ; and fer 
you a-startin' reports when I first come 'at 
more 'n likely I 'd done somepin' mean over 
east and come out west to reform ! And I 
wonder ef I didn't do somepin' mean afore I 
come here?' he went on; 'kill somebody er 
somepin' ? And I wonder ef I ain 't reformed 
enough to go back? Good-bye, Annie ! ' he 
hollered ; ' and you need n't fi*et about your 



142 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 

baby, I '11 be the same indulgent father to it 
I 've alius be'n ! ' And the baby was a-crjdn' 
and a-reachin' out its little arms to'rds its 
mother, when Bills he turned and struck oft' 
in the dark to'rds the river." 

This was about the tale 'at Ezry told us, as 
nigh as I can ricollect, and by the time he fin- 
ished, I never want to see jist sich another 
crowd o' men as was a-swarmin' there. Ain 't 
it awful when sich a crowd gits together? I 
tell you it makes my flesh creep to think 
about it ! 

As Bills had gone in the direction of the 
river, we was n't long in makin' our minds 
up 'at he 'd have to cross it, and ef he done 
that he 'd have to use the boat 'at was down 
below the mill, er wade it at the ford, a mild 
er more down. So we divided in three sec- 
tions, like — one to go and look after the folks 
at the house, and another to the boat, and an- 
other to the ford. And Steve and me and 
Ezry was in the crowd 'at struck fer the boat, 
and we made time a-gittin' there ! It was aw- 
ful dark, and the sky was a-cloudin'up like a 
storm ; but we was n't long a-gittin' to the p'int 
where the boat was alius tied ; but ther' was n't 
no boat there ! Steve kind o' tuck the lead, 
and we all talked in whispers. And Steve^ 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. I43 

said to kind o' lay low and maybe we could 
hear somepin\ and some feller said he thought 
he heerd somepin' strange like, but the wind 
was kind o' raisin' and kep' up sich a moanin' 
through the trees along the bank 't we could n't 
make out nothin'. "Listen!" says Steve, 
suddent like, " I hear somepin ! " We was all 
still again — and we all heerd a moanin' 'at 
was sadder 'n the wind — sounded mournfuller 
to me 'cause I knowed it in a minute, and I 
whispered, -'Little Annie." And 'way out 
acrost the river we could hear the little thing 
a-sobbin', and we all was still 's death; and 
we heerd a voice we knowd was Bills's say, 
" Dam ye ! Keep still, or I '11 drownd ye ! " 
And the wind kind o' moaned agin and we 
could hear the trees a-screechin' together in 
the dark, and the leaves a-rustlin' ; and when 
it kind o' lulled agin, we heerd Bills make a 
kind o' splash with the oars ; and jist then 
Steve whispered fer to lay low and be ready — 
he was a-goin' to riconnitre ; and he tuck his 
coat and shoes off, and slid over the bank and 
down into the worter as slick as a' eel. Then 
ever'thing was still agin, 'cept the moanin' o' 
the child, which kep' a-gittin' louder and 
louder; and then a voice whispered to us, 
" He 's a-comin' back ; the crowd below has 
sent scouts up, and they 're on t' other side. 



144 ^'^ ^^^ settler's story. 

Now watch clos't, and he's our meat." We 
could hear Bills, by the moanin' o' the baby, 
a-comin' nearder and nearder, tel suddently 
he made a sort o' miss-lick with the oar, I 
reckon, and must a^splashed the baby, fer she 
set up a loud cryin ; and jist then old Ezry, 
who was a-leanin' over the bank, kind o' lost 
his grip some way o' nuther, and fell kersplash 
in the worter like a' old chunk. ^' Hello!" 
says Bills, through the dark, ''you 're there, 
too, air ye ? " as old Ezry splashed up the 
bank agin. And '' Cuss you ! " he says then, 
to the baby — " ef it had n't be'n fer your in- 
fernal squawkin' I 'd a-be'n all right ; but 
you Ve brought the whole neighberhood out, 
and, dam you, I '11 list let you swim out to 
'em ! '^ And we heerd a splash, then a kind 
o' gurglin', and then Steve's voice a-holler- 
in', ''Close in on him, boys; I've got the 
baby!" And about a dozend of us bobbed 
off the bank like so many bull-frogs, and I '11 
tell you the worter b'iled ! We could jist make 
out the shape o' the boat, and Bills a-standin' 
with a' oar drawed back to smash the first 
head 'at come in range. It was a mean 
place to git at him. We knowed he was des- 
pert, and fer a minute we kind o' belt back. 
Fifteen foot o' worter 's a mighty onhandy 
place to git hit over the head in ! And Bills 



AN OLD settler's STORY. I45 

says, '*' You hain 't afeard , I reckon — twenty 
men agin one ! " " You 'd better give your 
se'f up ! " hollered Ezry from the shore. 
" No, Brother Sturgiss," says Bills, '' I can 't 
say 'at I 'm at all anxious 'bout bein' borned 
agin, jist yit awhile," he says; "1 see you 
kind 0^ 'pear to go in fer babtism ; guess you 'd 
better go home and git some dry clothes on ; 
and, speakin' o' home, you 'd ort 'o be there 
by all means — your house might catch afire 
and burn up while you 're gone ! " And jist 
then the boat give a suddent shove under 
him — some feller 'd div under and tilted it — 
and fer a minute it throwed him off his guard 
and the boys closed in. Still he had the ad- 
vantage, bein' in the boat, and as fast as a 
feller would climb in he 'd git a whack o' the 
oar, tel finally they got to pilin' in a little too 
fast fer him to manage, and he hollered then 
'at we 'd have to come to the bottom ef we got 
him, and with that he div out o' the end o' the 
boat, and we lost sight of him ; and I '11 be 
blame ef he did n^t give us the slip after all. 

Wellsir, we watched fer him, and some o' 
the boys swum on down stream, expectin' 
he M raise, but could n't find hide ner hair of 
him ; so we left the boat a-driftin' oft^ down 
stream and swum ashore, a-thinkin' he 'd jist 

drownded hisse'f a-purpose. But ther' was 
10 



146 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

more su'prise waitin' fer us yit, — for lo-and- 
behold-you, when we got ashore ther' was n't 
no trace o^ Steve er the baby to be found. 
Ezry said he seed Steve when he fetched Ht- 
tle Annie ashore, and she was all right on'3^ 
she was purt nigh past cryin' ; and he said 
Steve had lapped his coat around her and give 
her to him to take charge of, and he got so 
excited over the fight he laid her down be- 
twixt a couple o' logs and kind o' forget about 
her tel the thing was over, and he went to 
look fer her, and she was gone. Could n't 
a-be'n 'at she'd a-wundered oflfher-own-se'f ; 
and it could n't a-be'n 'at Steve 'd take her, 
'thout a-lettin us know it. It was a mighty 
aggervatin' conclusion to come to, but we had 
to do it, and that was. Bills must a got ashore 
unbeknownst to us and packed her off. Sich 
a thing was n't hardly probable, yit it was a 
thing 'at might be ; and after a-talkin' it over 
we had to admit 'at it must a-be'n the way 
of it. But where was Steve ? W'y, we ar- 
gied, he 'd discivvered she was gone, and had 
put out on track of her 'thout losin' time to 
stop and explain the thing. The next ques- 
tion was, what did Bills want with her agin? 
He 'd tried to drownd her onc't. We could ast 
questions enough, but c'rect answers was 
mighty skearce, and we jist concluded *at the 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. I47 

best thing to do was to put out fer the ford, 
fer that was the nighdest place Bills could 
cross 'thout a boat, and ef it was him tuck the 
child he was still on our side o' the river, o' 
course. So we struck out fer the ford, a-leav- 
in' a couple o' men to search up the river. A 
drizzlin' sort o' rain had set in by this time, 
and with that and the darkness and the 
moanin' of the wind, it made 'bout as lone- 
some a prospect as a feller ever wants to go 
through agin. 

It was jist a-gittin' a little gray-like in the 
mornin' by the time we reached the ford, but 
you could n't hardly see two rods afore you fer 
the mist and the fog 'at had settled along the 
river. We looked fer tracks, but could n't 
make out nuthin'. Thereckly old Ezry 
punched me and p'inted out acrost the river. 
" What 's that? " he whispers. Jist 'bout half 
way acrost was somepin' white -like in the 
worter — could n't make out what — perfeckly 
still it was. And I whispered back and told 
him I guess it was n't nothin' but a sycamore 
snag. '' Listen !" says he ; '' Sycamore snags 
do n't make no noise hke that ! " And, shore 
enough, it was the same moanin' noise we 'd 
heerd the baby makin' when we first got on 
the track. Sobbin' she was, as though nigh 
about dead. " Well, ef that 's Bills," says I— 



148 AN OLD settler's STORY. 

'' and I reckon ther' hain't no doubt but it is — 
what in the name o' all that 's good and bad 's 
the feller a-standin' there fer?" And a-creep- 
in' clos'ter, we could make him out plainer 
and plainer. It was him ; and there he stood 
breast-high in the worter, a-holdin' the baby 
on his shoulder like, and a lookin' up stream, 
and a-waitin'. 

" What do you make out of it?" saysEzry. 
" What 's he waitin' fer?" 

And a strainin' my eyes in the direction he 
was a-lookin' I seed somepin' a-movin' down 
the river, and a minute later I 'd made out the 
old boat a driftin' down stream ; and then of 
course ever'thing was plain enough : He was 
waitin' fer the boat, and ef he got /Mt he 'd 
have the same advantage on us he had afore. 

" Boys," says 1, " he must n't git that boat 
agin ! FoUer me, and do n't let him git to the 
shore alive." And in we plunged. He seed 
us, but he never budged, on'y to grab the baby 
by its little legs, and swing it out at arms- 
len'th. " Stop, there," he hollered. " Stop 
jist where you air ! Move another inch and I '11 
drownd this dam young-un afore your eyes ! " 
he says. — And he 'd a done it. '' Boys," says 
I, " he 's got us. Do n't move ! This thing '11 
have to rest with a higher power 'n our 'n ! 



AN OLD settler's STORY. I49 

Ef any of you kin pray," says I, ^'now's a 
good time to do it ! " 

Jist then the boat swung up, and Bills 
grabbed it and rech 'round and set the baby 
in it, never a-takin' his eye off o' us, though, 
fer a minute. " Now," says he, with a sort o' 
snarlin' laugh, " I 've on'y got a little while to 
stay with you, and I want to say a few words 
afore I go. I want to tell you fellers, in the 
first place, 'at you 've be' n fooled in me : I 
haint a good feller, now, honest ! And ef 
you 're a little the worse fer findin' it out so 
late in the day, you hain't none the worse Ter 
losin' me so soon — fer I 'm a-goin' away now, 
and any interference with my arrangements 
'11 on'y give you more trouble ; so it 's better 
all around to let me go peaceable and jist 
while I 'm in the notion. I expect it '11 be a 
disappointment to some o' you that my name 
hain't 'Williams,' but it hain't. And maybe 
you won't think nigh as much o' me when I 
tell you furder 'at I was obleeged to 'dopt the 
name o' ' Williams ' onc't to keep from bein' 
strung up to a lamp-post, but sichis the facts. 
I was so extremely unfortunit onc't as to kill 
a p'ticular friend o' mine, and he forgive me 
with his dyin' breath, and told me to run while 
I could, and be a better man. But he 'd spot- 
ted me with a' ugly mark 'at made it kind o' 



150 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. 

onhandy to git away, but I did at last ; and 
jist as I was a-gittin' reformed-like, you 
fellers had to kick in the traces, and I 've 
made up my mind to hunt out a more moraler 
community, where they do n't make sich a 
fuss about trifles. And havin' nothin' more to 
say, on'y to send Annie word 'at I '11 still be 
a father to her youngun here, I '11 bid you all 
good-bye." And with that he turned and 
clum in the boat — or ruther fell in, — fer some- 
pin' black-like had riz up in it, with a' awful 
lick — my — God! — and, a minute later, boat 
and baggage was a-gratin' on the shore, and 
a crowd come thrashin' 'crost from tother side 
tojine us, and 'peared like wasn't a second 
longer tel a feller was a-swingin' by his neck 
to the limb of a scrub-oak, his feet clean off 
the ground, and his legs a-jerkin' up and down 
like a limber-jack's. 

And Steve it was a-layin' in the boat, and 
he 'd rid a mild or more 'thout knowin' of it. 
Bills had struck and stunt him as he clum in 
while the rumpus was a-goin' on, and he 'd 
on'y come to in time to hear Bills's farewell 
address to us there at the ford. 

Steve tuck charge o' little Annie agin, and 
ef she 'd a-be'n his own child he would n't 
a-went on more over her than he did ; and 
said nobody but her mother would git her out 



AN OLD SETTLERS STORY. I5I 

o' his hands agin. And he was as good as 
his word; and ef you could a-seed him a 
half hour after that, when he did give her to 
her mother — -all lapped up in his coat and as 
drippin'-wet as a little drownded angel — it 
would a-made you wish 't you was him to see 
that little woman a caperin' round him^ and 
a-thankin' him, and a-cryin' and a-laughin', 
and almost a-huggin' him, she was so tickled, 
— Well, I thought in my soul she 'd die! 
And Steve blushed like a girl to see her 
a-taking' on, and a-thankin' him, and a-cryin', 
and a-kissin' little Annie, and a-goin' on. 
And when she inquired 'bout Bills, which she 
did all suddent like, with a burst o' tears, we 
jist did n't have the heart to tell her — on'y we 
said he 'd crossed the river and got away. 
And he had ! 

And now comes a part o' this thing 'at '11 
more 'n like tax you to believe it : Williams 
and her was n't man and wife — and you 
need n't look surprised, nuther, and I '11 tell 
you fer why — They was own brother and sis- 
ter; and that brings me to her part of the 
story, which you'll have to admit beats any- 
thing 'at you ever read about in books. 

Her and Williams — that was 7t't his name, 
like he acknowledged, hisse'f, you ricoUect— 



152 AN OLD SETTLER^S STORY. 

ner she did n't want to tell his right name ; 
and we forgive her fer that. Her and ' Wil- 
liams ' was own brother and sister, and the'r 
parents lived in Ohio some'ers. The'r mother 
had be'n dead five year' and better — grieved to 
death over her onnachurl brother's reckless- 
ness, which Annie hinted had broke her father 
up in some way, in tryin' to shield him from the 
law. And the secret of her bein' with him was 
this : She had married a man o'the name of Cur- 
tis or Custer,! do n't mind which, adzackly— but 
no matter ; she 'd married a well-to-do young 
feller *at her brother helt a' old grudge agin, 
she never knowed what ; and sence her mar- 
riage her brother had went on from bad to 
worse tel finally her father jist give him up 
and told him to go it his own way — he 'd 
killed his mother and ruined him, and he'd 
jist give up all hopes. But Annie— you know 
how a sister is — she still clung to him and 
done ever'thing fer him, tel finally, one night 
about three years after she was married she 
got word some way that he was in trouble agin, 
and sent her husband to he'p him ; and a half 
hour after he 'd gone, her brother come in, all 
excited and bloody, and told her to git the 
baby and come with him, 'at her husband had 
got in a quarrel with a friend o' his and was 
bad hurt. And she went with him, of course, 



AN OLD SETTLER S STORY. I53 

and he tuck her in a buggy, and lit out with 
her as tight as he could go all night ; and then 
told her 'at he was the feller 'at had quarreled 
with her husband, and the officers was after 
him and he was obleeged to leave the country, 
and fer fear he had n't made shore work o' 
him, he was a-takin' her along to make shore 
of his gittin' his revenge ; and he swore he 'd 
kill her and the baby too ef she dared to 
whimper. And so it was, through a hunderd 
hardships he 'd made his way at last to our 
section o' the country, givin' out 'at they was 
man and wife, and keepin' her from denyin' 
of it by threats, and promises of the time 
a-comin' when he 'd send her home to her man 
agin in case he had n't killed him. And so it 
run on tel you 'd a-cried to hear her tell it, and 
still see her sister's love fer the feller a-break- 
in' out by a-declarin' how kind he was to her at 
times^ and how he was n't railly bad at heart, 
on'y fer his ungov'nable temper. But I 
could n't he'p but notice, when she was a tel- 
lin' of her hist'ry, what a quiet sort o' look o' 
satisfaction settled on the face o' Steve and the 
rest of 'em, do n't you understand. 

And now ther' was on'y one thing she 
wanted to ast, she said ; and that was, could 
she still make her home with us tel she could 
git word to her friends ? — and there she broke 



154 ^^ ^^^ settler's story. 

down agin, not knowin', of course, whether 
they was dead er alive ; fer time and time agin 
she said somepin' told her she 'd never see 
her husband agin on this airth ; and then the 
women-folks would cry with her and console 
her, and the boys would speak hopeful — -all 
but Steve ; some way o' nuther Steve was 
never like hisse'f from that time on. 

And so things went fer a month and better. 
Ever'thing had quieted down, and Ezry and 
a lot o' hands, and me and Steve amongst 'em, 
was a-workin' on the frame-work of another 
mill. It was purty weather, and we was all 
in good sperits, and it 'peared like the whole 
neighberhood was interested — and they was^ 
too— women-folks and ever'body. And that 
day Ezry's woman and amongst 'em was a- 
gittin' up a big dinner to fetch down to us from 
the house ; and along about noon a spruce- 
lookin' young feller, with a pale face and a 
black beard, like, come a-ridin' up and hitched 
his boss, and comin' into the crowd, said 
"Howdy,'' pleasant like, and we all stopped 
work as he went on to say 'at he was on the 
track of a feller o' the name o' ' Williams,' and 
wanted to know ef we could give him any in- 
fermation 'bout sich a man. Told him maybe, 
— 'at a feller bearin' that name desappeared 
kind o' myster'ous from our neighberhood 



AN OLD settler's STORY. 155 

'bout five weeks afore that. ''My God ! " says 
he, a-turnin' paler 'n ever, "am I too late? 
Where did he go, and was his sister and her 
baby with him? '' Jist then I ketched sight o' 
the women-folks a-comin' with the baskets, and 
Annie with 'em, with a jug o' worter in her 
hand ; so I spoke up quick to the stranger, and 
says I, '' I guess ' his sister and baby ' was n't 
along," says I, "but his wtye and baby's 
some'eres here in the neighberhood yit." And 
then a-watchin' him clos't, I says, suddent, a- 
pin'tin' over his shoulder, " There his woman 
is now— that one with the jug, there." Well, 
Annie had jist stooped to lift up one o' the 
little girls, when the feller turned, and the'r 
eyes met, ''Annie ! My wife ! " he says ; and 
Annie she kind o' give a little yelp like and 
come a-flutterin' down in his arms ; and the 
jug o' worter rolled clean acrost the road, and 
turned a somerset and knocked the cob out 
of its mouth and jist laid back and hollered 
" Good— good — ^good— good— good ! " like as 
ef it knowed what was up and was jist as glad 
and tickled as the rest of us 



^weet-Kjpot zit)d Calan;)U5 



AN OLD SWEETHEART. 

AS ONE who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, 
^And muses on the faces of the friends that he has 
known, 
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design, 
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine. 

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, 
As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes. 
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke 
Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke. 

'Tis a fragrant retrospection— for the loving thoughts that 

start 
Into being are like perfumes from the blossom of the 

heart; 
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine — 
When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweeheart 

of mine. 

Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, 
The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings, 
I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme 
When care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream 

In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm 
To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm — 
For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine 
That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of 
mine. 

A face of lily -beauty, with a form of airy grace. 
Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase; 

(159) 



l6o AN OLD SWEETHEART. 

And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes 
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies. 

I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress 
She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the 

caress 
With the written declaration that, " as surely as the vine 
Grew 'round the stump," she loved me — that old sweet- 
heart of mine. 

And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, 
As we used to talk together of the future we had planned — 
When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do 
But write the tender verses that she set the music to: 

When we should live together in a cozy little cot 

Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, 

Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever 

fine. 
And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of 

mine: 

When I should be her lover forever and a day, 

And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was 

gray; 
And we should be so happy that when cither's lips were 

dumb 
They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had 

come. 

* -je- * -Sf •35- * * 

But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, 
And the door is softly opened, and — my wife is standing 

there; 
Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign 
To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine. 



MARTHY ELLEN, 



The^ 



HEY 'S NOTHIN' in the name to strike 

A feller more'n common like! 

'Taint liable to git no praise 

Ner nothin' like it nowadays; 

An' yit that name o' her'n is jest 

As purty as the purtiest — 

And more 'n that, I 'm here to say 

I '11 live a-thinkin' thataway 

And die fer Marthy Ellen! 

It may be I was prejudust 
In favor of it from the fust — 
'Cause I kin ricollect jest how 
We met, and hear her mother now 
A-callin' of her down the road — 
And, aggervatin' little toad! — 
I see her now, jes' sort o' half- 
Way disapp'inted, turn and laugh 

And mock her — "Marthy Ellen!'* 

Our people never had no fuss, 

And yit they never tuck to us; 

We neighbered back and foreds some; 

Until they see she liked to come 

To our house — and me and her 

Were jest together ever'whur 

And all the time — and when they 'd see 

That I liked her and she liked me, 

They'd holler "Marthy Ellen!" 
II 

(i6i) 



1 62 MARTHY ELLEN. 

When we growed up, and they shet down 
On me and her a-runnin' roun' 
Together, and her father said 
He 'd never leave her nary red. 
So he'p him, ef she married me, 
And so on — and her mother she 
Jest agged the gyrl, and said she 'lowed 
She 'd ruther see her in her shroud, 
I writ to Marthy Ellen — 

That is, I kindo' tuck my pen 
In hand, and stated whur and when 
The undersigned would be that night. 
With two good hosses saddled right 
Fer lively travelin' in case 
Her folks 'ud like to jine the race. 
She sent the same note back, and writ 
"The rose is red! " right under it — 

" Your'n alius, Marthy Ellen." 

That's all, I reckon — Nothin' more 
To tell but what you 've heerd afore — 
The same old story, sweeter though 
Fer all the trouble, do n't you know. 
Old-fashioned name! and yit it's jest 
As purty as the purtiest; 
And more 'n that, I 'm here to say 
I '11 live a-thinking thataway, 

And die fer Marthy Ellen! 



MOON-DROWNED. 

T^WAS THE HEIGHT of the fete when we quitted the 
riot, 

And quietly stole to the terrace alone, 
Where, pale as the lovers that ever swear by it, 

The moon it gazed down as a god from his throne. 
We stood there enchanted. — And O the delight of 

The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea, 
And the infinite skies of that opulent night of 

Purple and gold and ivory ! 

The lisp of the lip of the ripple just under — 

The half-awake nightingale's dream in the yews — 
Came up from the water, and down from the wonder 

Of shadowy foliage, drowsed with the dews, — 
Unsteady the firefly's taper— unsteady 

The poise of the stars, and their light in the tide, 
As it struggled and writhed in caress of the eddy, 

As love in the billowy breast of a bride. 

The far-away lilt of the waltz rippled to us, 

And through us the exquisite thrill of the air : 
Like the scent of bruised bloom was her breath, and its 
dew was 

Not honier-sweet than her warm kisses were. 
We stood there enchanted. — And O the delight of 

The sight of the stars and the moon nad the sea, 
And the infinite skies of that opulent night of 

Purple and gold and ivory ! 



(163) 



LONG AFORE HE KNOWED WHO SANTY- 
CLAUS WUZ. 

JES' A LITTLE bit o' feller— I remember still,— 
Ust to almost cry fer Christmas, like a youngster 
will. 
Fourth o' July 's nothin' to it ! — New- Year's ai n't a smell : 
Easter- Sunday — Circus-day — ^jes' all dead in the shell ! 
Lordy, though! at night, you know, to set around and hear 
The old folks work the story off about the sledge and deer, 
And " Santy " skootin' round the roof, all wrapped in fur 

and fuzz — 
Long afore 

I knowed who 

"Santy-Claus" wuz ! 

Ust to wait, and set up late, a week er two ahead : 
Could n't hardly keep awake, ner would n't go to bed : 
Kittle stewin' on the fire, and Mother settin' here 
Darnin' socks, and rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer ; 
Pap gap', and wunder where it wuz the money went, 
And quar'l with his frosted heels, and spill his liniment « 
And me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir 

and buzz, 
Long afore 

I knowed who 

"Santy-Claus" wuz ! 

Size the fire-place up, and figger how " Old Santy " could 
Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would: 
Wisht that I could hide and see him — wundered what 

he 'd say 
Ef he ketched a feller layin' fer him thataway ! 
(164) 



LONG AFORE HE KNOWED. 165 

But I het on him, and liked him, same as ef he had 
Turned to pat me on the back and say, " Look here, my lad, 
Here 's my pack, — ^jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys 

does ! " 
Long afore 

I knowed who 

"Santy-Claus" wuz ! 

Wisht that yarn was true about him, as it 'peared to be — 
Truth made out o' lies like that-un 's good enough fer me ! — 
Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild 
Over hangin' up my stockin's, like the little child 
Climbin' in my lap to-night, and beggin' me to tell 
'Bout them reindeers, and " Old Santy " that she loves so 

well 
I 'm half sorry fer this little-girl-sweetheart of his — 
Long afore 

She knows who 

" Santy-Claus " is ! 



DEAR HANDS. 



The 



HE TOUCHES of her hands are like the fall 
Of velvet snowflakes ; like the touch of down 

The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall ; 

The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp 
Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown 

The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp. 

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, 
The touches of her hands, and the delight — 

The touches of her hands ! 
The touches of her hands are like the dew 
That falls so softly down no one e'er knew 
The touch thereof save lovers like to one 
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion. 

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands. 
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands ; 

Or pulse of dying fay ; or fairy sighs ; 
Or — in between the midnight and the dawn. 
When long unrest and tears and fears are gone — 

Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes. 



(i66) 



THIS MAN JONES. 

HIS MAN JONES was what you 'd call 
A feller 'at had no sand at all ; 
Kind o' consumpted, and undersize, 
And sailor-complected, with big sad eyes, 
And a kind-of-a sort-of-a hang-dog style, 
And a sneakin' sort-of-a half-way smile 
'At kind o' give him away to us 
As a preacher, maybe, er somepin' wuss. 

Did n't take with the gang — well, no — 

But still we managed to use him, though, — 

Coddin' the gilly along the rout'. 

And drivin' the stakes 'at he pulled out — 

Fer I was one of the bosses then, 

And of course stood in with the canvasmen ; 

And the way we put up jobs, you know, 

On this man Jones jes' beat the show ! 

Ust to rattle him scandalous, 
And keep the feller a-dodgin' us, 
And a-shyin' round half skeered to death, 
And afeerd to whimper above his breath ; 
Give him a cussin', and then a kick, 
And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick — 
Jes' fer the fun of seein' him climb 
Around with a head on most the time. 

But what was the curioust thing to me. 
Was along o' the party — let me see, — 
Who was our " Lion Queen " last year ? — 
Mamzelle Zanty, or De La Pierre ? — 
Well, no matter — a stunnin' mash, 
With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash. 
And a figger sich as the angels owns — 
And one too many fer this man Jones. 
(167) 



1 68 THIS MAN JONES. 

He 'd alius wake in the afternoon, 

As the band waltzed in on the lion-tune, 

And there, from the time 'at she 'd go in 

Till she 'd back out of the cage agin, 

He 'd stand, shakj and limber-kneed — 

'Specially when she come to " feed 

The beasts raw meat with her naked hand "- 

And all that business, you understand. 

And it was resky in that den — 
Fer I think she juggled three cubs then, 
And a big " green " lion 'at used to smash 
Collar-bones fer old Frank Nash ; 
And I reckon now she hain 't fergot 
The afternoon old " Nero " sot 
His paws on her! — but as fer me, 
It's a sort-of-a mixed-up mystery: — 

Kind o' remember an awful roar, 
And see her back fer the bolted door- 
See the cage rock — heerd her call 
*' God have mercy ! " and that was all — 
Fer they ain 't no livin' man can tell 
What it 's like when a thousand yell 
In female tones, and a thousand more 
Howl in bass till their throats is sore! 

But the keeper said 'at dragged her out. 
They heerd some feller laugh and shout — 
*' Save her ! Quick ! I 've got the cuss ! " 
And yit she waked and smiled on us I 
And we dare n't flinch, fer the doctor said, 
Seein' as this man Jones was dead, 
Better to jes' not let her know 
Nothin' o' that fer a week er so. 



I 



TO MY GOOD MASTER. 

N FANCY, always, at thy desk, thrown wdde, 
Thy most betreasured books ranged neighborly- 
The rarest rhymes of every land and sea 
And curious tongue— thine old face glorified, — 
Thou haltest thy glib quill, and, laughing-eyed, 
Givest hale welcome even unto me, 
Profaning thus thine attic's sanctity, 
To briefly visit, yet to still abide 
Enthralled there of thy sorcery of wit. 

And thy songs' most exceeding dear conceits. 
O lips, cleft to the ripe core of all sweets. 
With poems, like nectar, issuing therefrom, 
Thy gentle utterances do overcome 
My listening heart and all the love of it! 



(169) 



WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE 
TREES. 

[N SPRING, when the green gits back in the trees, 
And the sun comes out and stays. 
And jer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze, 

And you think of yer barefoot days; 
When you ort to work and you want to not, 

And you and yer wife agrees 
It 's time to spade up the garden lot, 

When the green gits back in the trees — 
Well! work is the least o' my idees 
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees ! 

When the green gits back in the trees, and bees 

Is a-buzzin' aroun' agin. 
In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please 

Old gait they bum roun' in; 
When the groun's all bald where the hay-rick stood, 

And the crick 's riz, and the breeze 
Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, 

And the green gits back in the trees, — 
I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these. 
The time when the green gits back in the trees! 

When the whole tail-feathers o' wintertime 

Is all pulled out and gone! 
And the sap it thaws and begins to climb, 

And the sweat it starts out on 
A feller's forred, a-gittin' down 

At the old spring on his knees — 
I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' roun' 

When the green gits back in the trees — 
Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I — durn — please — 
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees! 
V170) 



a: 



AT BROAD RIPPLE. 

H, LUXURY! Beyond the heat 

And dust of town, with dangling feet, 
Astride the rock below the dam, 
In the cool shadows where the calm 
Rests on the stream again, and all 
Is silent save the waterfall, — 
I bait my hook and cast my line, 
And feel the best of life is mine. 

No high ambition may I claim — 
I angle not for lordly game 
Of trout, or bass, or wary bream — 
A black perch reaches the extreme 
Of my desires ; and "goggle-eyes " 
Are not a thing that I despise ; 
A sunfish, or a " chub," or " cat " — 
A " silver-side " — ^yea, even that ! 

In eloquent tranquility 
The waters lisp and talk to me. 
Sometimes, far out, the surface breaks, 
As some proud bass an instant shakes 
His glittering armor in the sun, 
And romping ripples, one by one, 
Come dallying across the space 
Where undulates my smiling face. 

The river's story flowing by, 
Forever sweet to ear and eye, 
Forever tenderly begun — 
Forever new and never done. 
Thus lulled and sheltered in a shade 
Where never feverish cares invade, 
I bait my hook and cast my line, 
And feel the best of life is mine. 
(171) 



WHEN OLD JACK DIED. 
I. 

^y\/ HEN old Jack died, we staid from school (they 

^^ said, 
At home, we need n't go that day), and none 
Of us ate any breakfast — only one. 
And that was Papa — and his eyes were red 
When he came round where we were, by the shed 
Where Jack was lying, half way in the sun 
And half way in the shade. When we begun 
To cry out loud. Pa turned and dropped his head 
And went away; and Mamma, she went back 
Into the kitchen. Then, for a long while, 
All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried. 
We thought so many good things of Old Jack, 
And funny things — although we did n't smile — 
We could n't only cry when Old Jack died. 



When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friend 

Had suddenly gone from us; that some face 

That we had loved to fondle and embrace 

From babyhood, no more would condescend 

To smile on us forever. We might bend 

With tearful eyes above him, interlace 

Our chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race. 

Plead with him, call and coax — aye, we might send 

The old halloo up for him, whistle, hist, 

(If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain. 

Snapped thumbs, called '' speak," and he had not replied; 

We might have gone down on our knees and kissed 

The tousled ears, and yet they must remain 

Deaf, motionless, we knew — when Old Jack died. 

(172) 



WHEN OLD JACK DIED. 1 73 



When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way, 

That all the other dogs in town were pained 

With our bereavement, and some that were chained, 

Even, unslipped their collars on that day 

To visit Jack in state, as though to pay 

A last, sad tribute there, while neighbors craned 

Their heads above the high board fence, and deigned 

To sigh " Poor dog! " remembering how they 

Had cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because. 

For love of them he leaped to lick their hands— 

Now, that he could not, were they satisfied ? 

We children thought that, as we crossed his paws, 

And o'er his grave, 'way down the bottom-lands. 

Wrote " Our First Love Lies Here," when Old Jack died. 



DOC SIFERS. 

OF ALL THE DOCTORS I could cite you to in 
this-'ere town 
Doc Sifers is my favorite, jes' take him up and down! 
Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and Big 

Bear, 
And Sifers' standin's jes' as good as ary doctor's there! 

There 's old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurg- 

ler, and McVeigh, 
But I '11 buck Sifers 'ginst 'etn all and down 'em any day! 
Most old Wick ever knowed, I s'pose, was whisky! 

Wurgler — well. 
He et morphine — ef actions shows, and facts' reliable! 

But Sifers — though he ain't no sot, he 's got his faults; 

and yit 
When you git Sifers onc't, you 've got a doctor^ do n't 

fergit! 
He ain't much at his office, er his house, er anywhere 
You 'd natchurly think certain fer to ketch the feller there. — 

But do n't blame Doc: he's got all sorts o' cur'ous no- 
tions — as 

The feller says, his odd-come-shorts, like smart men 
mostly has. 

He '11 more 'n like be potter 'n 'round the Blacksmith Shop; 
er in 

Some back lot, spadin' up the ground, er gradin' it agin. 

Er at the workbench, planin' things; er buildin' little 
traps 

To ketch birds; galvenizin' rings; er graftin' plums, per- 
haps. 

Make anything! good as the best! — a gunstock — era flute; 

He whittled out a set o' chesstmen onc't o' laurel root, 
(174) 



DOC SIFERS. 175 

Durin' the Armj — got his trade o' surgeon there — I own 
To-daj a finger-ring Doc made out of a Sesesh bone! 
An' glued a fiddle onc't fer me — ^jes' all so busted you 
'D a throwed the thing away, but he fixed her as good 



And take Doc, now, in ager^ say, er hiles^ er rhetimatiz^ 
And all afl[iictions thataway, and he's the best thej^ is! 
Er janders — milksick — I do n't keer — k-yore anything he 

tries — 
A abscess; getherin' in yer yeer; er granilated eyes! 

There was the Widder Daubenspeck they all give up fer 
dead; 

A blame cowbuncle on her neck, and clean out of her 
head! 

First had this doctor, what 's-his-name, from "Puddles- 
burg," and then 

This little red-head, " Burnin' Shame" they call him — Dr. 
Glenn. 

And they " consulted " on the case, and claimed she 'd haf 

to die, — 
I jes' was joggin' by the place, and heerd her dorter cry. 
And stops and calls her to the fence; and I-says-I, "Let 

me 
Send Sifers — bet you fifteen cents he'll k-yore her!" 

" Well," says she, 

" Light out! " she says: And, lipp-tee-cut! I loped in town, 

and rid 
'Bout two hours more to find him, but I kussed him when 

I did! 
He was down at the Gunsmith Shop a-stuffin' birds! Says 

he, 
" My sulky 's broke." Says I, " You hop right on and 

ride with me ! " 



I*j6 DOC SIFERS. 

I got him there.—" Well, Aunty, ten days k-yores you," 

Sifers said, 
"But what 's yer idy livin' whenyer jes' as good as dead?" 
And there 's Dave Banks — ^jes' back from war without a 

scratch — one day 
Got ketched up in a sickle -bar, a reaper runaway. — 

His shoulders, arms, and hands and legs jes' sawed in 
strips ! And Jake 

Dunn starts fer Sifers — feller begs to shoot him fer God- 
sake. 

Doc, 'course, was gone, but he had penned the notice, "At 
Big Bear — 

Be back to-morry; Gone to 'tend the Bee Convention 
there." 

But Jake, he tracked him — rid and rode the whole en- 

durin' night ! 
And 'bout the time the roosters crowed they both hove 

into sight. 
Doc had to ampitate, but 'greed to save Dave's arms, and 

swore 
He could a-saved his legs ef he 'd ben there the day before. 

Like when his wife's own mother died 'fore Sifers could 

be found, 
And all the neighbers fer and wide a' all jes' chasin' round; 
Tel finally — I had to laugh — it 's jes' like Doc, you know, — 
Was learnin' fer to telegraph, down at the old deepo. 

But all they 're faultin' Sifers fer, there 's none of 'em kin 

say 
He 's biggoty, er keerless, er not posted anyway; 
He ain't built on the common plan of doctors now-a-days. 
He 's jes' a great, big, brainy man — that 's where the 

trouble lays! 



AT NOON— AND MIDNIGHT. 

l^R IN THE NIGHT, and jet no rest for him! The 
^ pillow next his own 

The wife's sweet face in slumber pressed — jet he awake — 

alone! alone! 
In vain he courted sleep; — one thought would ever in his 

heart arise, — 
The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops 

to her ejes. 

Slowlj on lifted arm he raised and listened. Ail was still 

as death; 
He touched her forehead as he gazed, and listened jet, 

with bated breath: 
Still silentlj, as though he prajed, his lips moved lightly 

as she slept — 
For God was with him, and he laid his face with hers and 

wept. 

12 



(m) 



A Wild tns\}n)z^r) 



A WILD IRISHMAN. 

^y OT very many years ago the writer was 
^^^ for some months stationed at South 
Bend, a thriving little city of northern Indi- 
ana, its main population on the one side of 
the St. Joseph river, but quite a respectable 
fraction thereof taking its industrial way to 
the opposite shore, and there gaining an aud- 
ience and a hearing in the rather imposing 
growth and hurly-burly of its big manufac- 
tories, and the consequent rapid appearance of 
multitudinous neat cottages, tenement houses 
and business blocks. A stranger, entering 
South Bend proper on any ordinary day, will 
be at some loss to account for its prosperous 
appearance — its flagged and bowldered streets 
— its handsome mercantile blocks, banks, and 
business houses generally. Reasoning from 
cause to effect, and seeing but a meager 
sprinkling of people on the streets throughout 
the day, and these seeming, for the most part, 
merely idlers, and in no wise accessory to the 
evident thrift and opulence of their surround- 
ings, the observant stranger will be puzzled 
at the situation. But when evening comes, 
and the outlying foundries, sewing-machine, 
(i8i) 



1 82 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

wagon, plow, and other ''works," together 
with the paper-mills and all the nameless in- 
dustries—when the operations of all these are 
suspended for the day, and the workmen and 
workwomen loosed from labor — then, as this 
vast army suddenly invades and overflows 
bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled 
stranger will fully comprehend the why and 
wherefore of the city's high prosperity. And, 
once acquainted with the people there, the 
fortunate sojourner will find no ordinary cult- 
ure and intelligence, and, as certainly, he will 
meet with a social spirit and a wholesouled 
heartiness that will make the place a lasting 
memory. The town, too, is the home of many 
world-known notables, and a host of loccil 
celebrities, the chief of which latter class I 
found, during my stay there, in the person of 
Tommy Stafford, or " The Wild Irishman " as 
everybody called him. 

'' Talk of odd fellows and eccentric charac- 
ters," said Major Blowney, my employer, one 
afternoon, ''you must see our 'Wild Irish- 
man' here before you say you've yet found 
the queerest, brightest, cleverest chap in all 
your travels. What d 'ye say, Stockford?" 
And the Major paused in his work of charging 
cartridges for his new breech-loading shotgun 
and turned to await his partner's response. 



A WILD IRISHMAN. 



183 



Stockford, thus addressed, paused above 
the shield-sign he was lettering, slowly smil- 
ing as be dipped and trailed his pencil through 
the ivory black upon a bit of broken glass and 
said, in his deliberate, half- absent-minded 
way, — ''Is it Tommy you're telling him 
about?" and then, with a gradual broadening 
of the smile, he went on, "Well, I should say 
so. Tommy! What's come of the fellow, 
anyway? I have n't seen him since his last 
bout with the mayor, on his trial for shakin' 
up that fast-horse man." 

" The fast-horse man got just exactly what 
he needed, too," said the genial Major, laugh- 
ing, and mopping his perspiring brow. ''The 
fellow was barkin' up the wrong stump when 
he tackled Tomm}^ ! Got beat in the trade, at 
his own game, you know, and wound up by 
an insult that no Irishman would take ; and 
Tommy just naturally wore out the hall carpet 
of the old hotel with him ! " 

"And then collared and led him to the 
mayor's office himself, they say ! " 

" Oh, he did ! " said the Major, with a dash 
of pride in the confirmation ; " that 's Tommy 
all over ! " 

"Funny trial, wasn't it?" continued the 
ruminating Stockford. 

" Was n't it though? " laughed the Major. 



184 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

''The porter's testimony: You see, he was 
for Tommy, of course, and on examination 
testified that the horse-man struck Tommy 
first. And there Tommy broke in with : 
" He 's a-meanin' well, yer Honor, but he 's 
lyin' to ye — he 's lyin' to ye. No livin' man 
iver struck me first — nor last, nayther, for the 
matter o' that ! ' And I thought— the — court 
— would — die ! " concluded the Major, in a 
like imminent state of merriment. 

" Yes, and he said if he struck him first," 
supplemented Stockford, '' he 'd like to know 
why the horseman was ' wearin' all the black 
eyes, and the blood, and the boomps on the 
head of um ! ' And it 's that talk of his that 
got him oflf with so light a fine ! " 

''As it always does," said the Major, com- 
ing to himself abruptly and looking at his 
watch. " Stock', you say you 're not going 
along with our duck-shooting party this time? 
The old Kankakee is just lousy with 'em this 
season ! " 

" Can 't go possibly," said Stockford, " not 
on account of the work at all, but the folks at 
home ain't just as well as I 'd like to see 
them, and I ^11 stay here till they 're better. 
Next time I '11 try and be ready for you. Go- 
ing to take Tommy, of course? ^' 

' ' Of course ! Got to have ' The Wild Irish- 



A WILD IRISHMAN. 185 

man ' with us ! I 'm going around to find him 
now." Then turning to me the Major con- 
tinued, '' Suppose you get on your coat and 
hat and come along? It's the best chance 
you '11 ever have to meet Tommy. It 's late 
anyhow, and Stockford '11 get along without 
you. Come on." 

" Certainly," said Stockford ; '' go ahead. 
And you can take him ducking, too, if he 
wants to go." 

"But he doesn't want to go — and won't 
go," replied the Major with a commiserative 
glance at me. '' Says he does n't know a 
duck from a poll-parrot — nor how to load a 
shotgun — and could n't hit a house if he were 
inside of it and the door shut. Admits that 
he nearly killed his uncle once, on the other 
side of a tree, with a squirrel runnin' down it. 
Do n't want him along ! " 

Reaching the street with the genial Major, 
he gave me this advice: " Now, when you 
meet Tommy, you must n't take all he says 
for dead earnest, and you must n't believe, be- 
cause he talks loud, and in italics every other 
word, that he wants to do all the talking and 
wo n't be interfered with. That 's the way he 's 
apt to strike folks at first — but it 's their mis- 
take, not his. Talk back to him — controvert 
him whenever he 's aggressive in the utter- 



l86 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

ance of his opinions, and if you *re only hon- 
est in the announcement of your own ideas 
and beliefs, he '11 like you all the better for 
standing by them. He 's quick-tempered, and 
perhaps a trifle sensitive, so share your 
greater patience with him, and he '11 pay you 
back by fighting for you at the drop of the 
hat. In short, he ^s as nearly typical of his 
gallant country's brave, impetuous, fun-loving 
individuality as such a likeness can exist." 

" But is he quarrelsome? " I asked. 

" Not at all. There 's the trouble. If he 'd 
only quarrel there 'd be no harm done. Quar- 
reling 's cheap, and Tommy 's extravagant. 
A big blacksmith here, the other day, kicked 
some boy out of his shop, and Tommy, on his 
cart, happened to be passing at the time ; and 
he just jumped off* without a word, and went 
in and worked on that fellow for about three 
minutes, with such disastrous results that they 
could n't tell his shop from a slaughter-house ; 
paid an assault and battery fine, and gave the 
boy a dollar beside, and the whole thing was 
a positive luxury to him. But I guess we 'd 
better drop the subject, for here 's his cart, 
and here 's Tommy. Hi ! there, you ' Far- 
down ' Irish Mick ! " called the Major, in af- 
fected antipathy, "been out raiding the honest 
farmers' hen-roosts again, have you?" 



A WILD IRISHMAN. 187 

We had halted at a corner grocery and prod- 
uce store, as I took it, and the smooth-faced, 
shave-headed man in woolen shirt, short vest, 
and suspenderless trousers so boisterously ad- 
dressed by the Major, was just lifting from the 
back of his cart a coop of cackling chickens. 

''Arrah! ye blasted Kerryonian !" replied 
the handsome fellow, depositing the coop on 
the curb and straightening his tall, slender 
figure ; " I were jist thinking of yez and the 
ducks, and here ye come quackin' into the 
prisence of r'yalty, wid yer canvas-back suit 
upon ye and the shwim-skins bechuxt yer 
toes ! How air yez, anyhow — and air we start- 
in' for the Kankakee by the nixt post?'' 

" We 're to start just as soon as we get the 
boys together," said the Major, shaking hands. 
' ' The crowd 's to be at Andrews' by 4, and it 's 
fully that now ; so come on at once. We '11 
go 'round by Munson's and have Hi send a 
boy to look after your horse. Come ; and I 
want to introduce my friend here to you, and 
we '11 all want to smoke and jabber a little in 
appropriate seclusion. Come on." And the 
impatient Major had linked arms with his hes- 
itating ally and myself, and was turning the 
corner of the street. 

''It's an hour's work I have yet wid the 
squawkers," mildly protested Tommy, still 



l88 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

hanging back and stepping a trifle high ; ''but, 
as one Irishman would say til another, ' Ye 're 
wrong, but I 'm wid ye ! ' " 

And five minutes later the three of us had 
joined a very jolly party in a snug back room, 
with 

"The chamber walls depicted all around 
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound, 
And the hurt deer," 

and where, as well, drifted over the olfactory 
intelligence a certain subtle, warm-breathed 
aroma, that genially combatted the chill and 
darkness of the day without, and, resurrecting 
long-dead Christmases, brimmed the grateful 
memory with all comfortable cheer. 

A dozen hearty voices greeted the appear- 
ance of Tommy and the Major, the latter ad- 
roitly pushing the jovial Irishman to the front, 
with a mock-heroic introduction to the general 
compan)^, at the conclusion of which Tommy, 
with his hat tucked under the left elbow, stood 
bowing with a grace of pose and presence Lord 
Chesterfield might have applauded. 

'' Gintlemen," said Tommy, settling back 
upon his heels and admiringly contemplating 
the group; '' Gintlemen, I congratu-late yez 
wid a pride that shoves the thumbs o' me into 
the arrum-holes of me weshkit ! At the inshti- 



A WILD IRISHMAN. 1 89 

gallon of the bowld O'Blowney — axin' the 
gintleman's pardon — I am here wid no silver 
tongue of illoquence to para-lyze yez, but I 
am prisent, as has been ripresinted, to jine 
wid yez in a stupendeous waste of gun-pow- 
der, and duck-shot, and ' high-wines,' and 
ham sand-witches, upon the silvonian banks 
of the ragin' Kankakee, where the ' di-dipper ' 
tips ye good-bye wid his tail, and the wild 
loon skoots like a sky-rocket for his exiled 
home in the alien dunes of the wild morass — 
or, as Tommy Moore so illegantly describes 
the blashted birrud, — 

*Away to the dizhmal shwamp he shpeeds — 

His path is rugged and sore, 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds. 
And many a fen where the serpent feeds, 
And birrud niver flew before — 
And niver will fly any more 

if iver he arrives back safe into civilization 
again — and I 've been in the poultrjT- business 
long enough to know the private opinion and 
personal integrity of ivery fowl that flies the 
air or roosts on poles. But, changin' the sub- 
ject of my few small remarks here, and 
thankin yez wid an overflowin' heart but a 
dhry tongue, I have the honor to propose, gin- 
tlemen, long life and health to ivery mother's 



190 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

son o' yez, and success to the ' Duck-hunters 
of Kankakee.' " 

"The duck-hunters of the Kankakee!" 
chorussed the elated party in such musical 
uproar that for a full minute the voice of the 
enthusiastic Major — who was trying to say 
something^could not be heard. Then he 
said : 

''I want to propose that theme — ^ The 
Duck-hunters of the Kankakee', for one of 
Tommy^s improvizations. I move we have a 
song now from Tommy on the ' Duck-hunters 
of the Kankakee.' " 

''Hurra! Hurra! A song from Tommy," 
cried the crowd. " Make us up a song, and 
put us all into it ! A song from Tommy ! A 
song ! A song ! " 

There was a queer light in the eye of the 
Irishman. I observed him narrowly — expect- 
antly. Often I had read of this phenomenal 
art of improvised ballad-singing, but had al- 
ways remained a little skeptical in regard to 
the possibility of such a feat. Even in the 
notable instances of this gift as displayed by 
the very clever Theodore Hook, I had always 
half suspected some prior preparation — some 
adroit forecasting of the sequence that seemed 
the instant inspiration of his witty verses. 



A WILD IRISHMAN. I9I 

Here was evidently to be a test example, and 
I was all alert to mark its minutest detail. 

The clamor had subsided, and Tommy had 
drawn a chair near to and directly fronting the 
Major's. His right hand was extended, 
closely grasping the right hand of his friend 
which he scarce perceptibly, though measur- 
edly, lifted and let fall throughout the length 
of all the curious performance. The voice 
was not unmusical, nor was the quaint old 
ballad-air adopted by the singer unlovely in 
the least ; simply a monotony was evident 
that accorded with the levity and chance-fin- 
ish of the improvisation — and that the song 
was improvised on the instant I am certain — 
though in no wise remarkable, for other rea- 
sons, in rhythmic worth or finish. And while 
his smiling auditors all drew nearer, and leant, 
with parted lips to catch every syllable, the 
words of the strange melody trailed unhesitat- 
ingly into the lines literally as here subjoined : 

" One gloomy day in the airly Fall, 
Whin the sunshine had no chance at all — 
No chance at all for to gleam and shine 
And lighten up this heart of mine: 

*' 'Twas in South Bend, that famous town, 
Whilst I were a-strollin' round and round, 
I met some friends and they says to me: 

' It 's a hunt we '11 take on the Kankakee! ' " 



192 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

'' Hurra for the Kankakee ! Give it to us, 
Tommy ! ' cried an enthused voice between 
verses. '' Now give it to the Major ! ^' And 
the song went on : — 

*^ There 's Major Blowney leads the van, 
As crack a shot as an Irishman, — 
For its the duck is a tin decoy 
That his owld shotgun can 't destroy: 

And a half a dozen jubilant palms patted 
the Major's shoulders, and his ruddy, good- 
natured face beamed with delight. ''Now 
give it to the rest of 'em. Tommy ! " chuckled 
the Major. And the song continued : — 

" And along wid ' Hank ' is Mick Maharr, 
And Barney Pince, at ' The Shamrock ' bar — 
There 's Barney Pinch, wid his heart so true; 
And the Andrews Brothers they '11 go too." 

*' Hold on. Tommy ! " chipped in one of the 
Andrews; ''you must give 'the Andrews 
Brothers ' a better advertisement than that ! 
Turn us on a full verse, can 't you? " 

" Make ^em pay for it if you do ! " said the 
Major, in an undertone. And Tommy 
promptly amended : — 

" O, the Andrews Brothers, they '11 be there, 
Wid good se-gyars and wine to shpare, — 
They '11 treat us here on fine champagne, 
And whin we 're there they '11 treat us again." 



A WILD IRISHMAN. 1 93 

The applause here was vociferous, and only 
discontinued when a box of Havanas stood 
open on the table. During the momentary 
lull thus occasioned, I caught the Major's 
twinkling eyes glancing evasively toward me, 
as he leant whispering some further instruc- 
tions to Tommy, who again took up his des- 
ultory ballad, while I turned and fled for the 
street, catching, however, as I went, and high 
above the laughter of the crowd, the satire of 
this quatrain to its latest line • — > 

*'^But R-R-Rilej he '11 not go, I guess, 
Lest he 'd get lost in the wil-der-ness, 
And so in the city he will shtop 
For to curl his hair in the barber shop." 

It was after six when I reached the hotel, 
but I had my hair trimmed before I went 
in to supper. The style of trimming adopted 
then I still rigidly adhere to, and call it " the 
Tommy Stafford stubble-crop." 

Ten days passed before I again saw the 
Major. Immediately upon his return — it was 
late afternoon when I heard of it — I deter- 
mined to take my evening walk out the long 
street toward his pleasant home and call upon 
him there This I did, and found him in a 
wholesome state of fatigue, slippers and easy 
chair, enjoying his pipe on the piazza. Of 
13 



194 ^ WILD IRISHMA]^. 

course, he was overflowing with happy rem- 
iniscences of the hunt — the wood-and-water- 
craft — boats — ambushes — decoys, and tramp, 
and camp, and so on, without end ; — but I 
wanted to hear him talk of '' The Wild Irish- 
man" — Tommy; and I think, too, now, that 
the sagacious Major secretly read my desires 
all the time. To be utterly frank with the 
reader I will admit that I not only think the 
Major divined my interest in Tommy, but I 
know he did ; for at last, as though reading 
my very thoughts, he abruptly said, after a 
long pause, in which he knocked the ashes 
from his pipe and refilled and lighted it: — 
" Well, all I know of ' The Wild Irishman ' I 
can tell you in a very few words— that is, if 
you care at all to listen? " And the crafty old 
Major seemed to hesitate. 

" Go on — go on ! " I said, eagerly. 

''About forty years ago," resumed the Ma- 
jor, placidly, ''in the little, old, unheard-of 
town Karnteel, County Tyrone, Province Ul- 
ster, Ireland, Tommy Stafford- — in spite of the 
contrary opinion of his wretchedly poor par- 
ents — was fortunate enough to be born. And 
here, again, as I advised you the other day, 
you must be prepared for constant surprises in 
the study of Tommy's character." 



A WILD IRISHMAN, 1 95 

^' Go on," I said; " I 'm prepared for any- 
thing." 

The Major smiled profoundly and contin- 
ued : — 

" Fifteen years ago, when he came to Amer- 
ica — and the Lord only knows how he got 
the passage-money — he brought his widowed 
mother with him here, and has supported, and 
is still supporting her. Besides," went on the 
still secretly smiling Major, ''the fellow has 
actually found time, through all his adversi- 
ties, to pick up quite a smattering of education, 
here and there — " 

" Poor fellow !" I broke in, sympathizingly, 
*' what a pity it is that he could n't have had 
such advantages earlier in life," and as I re- 
called the broad brogue of the fellow, together 
with his careless dress, recognizing beneath 
it all the native talent and brilliancy of a mind 
of most uncommon worth, I could not restrain 
a deep sigh of compassion and regret. 

The Major was leaning forward in the gath- 
ering dusk, and evidently studying my own 
face, the expression of which, at that moment, 
was very grave and solemn, I am sure. He 
suddenly threw himself backward in his chair, 
in an uncontrollable burst of laughter. " Oh, 
I just can't keep it up any longer," he ex- 
claimed. 



196 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

*' Keep what up?" I queried, in a perfect 
maze of bewilderment and surprise. ''Keep 
what up?" I repeated. 

"Why, all this twaddle, farce, travesty and 
by-play regarding Tommy ! You know I 
warned you, over and over, and you must n't 
blame me for the deception. I never thought 
you'd take it so in earnest!" and here the 
jovial Major again went into convulsions of 
laughter. 

" But I don 't understand a word of it all," 
I cried, half frenzied with the gnarl and tan- 
gle of the whole affair. "What 'twaddle, 
farce and by-play,' is it anyhow?" And in 
my vexation, I found myself on my feet and 
striding nervously up and down the paved 
walk that joined the street with the piazza, 
pausing at last and confronting the Major al- 
most petulantly. "Please explain," I said, 
controlling my vexation with an effort. 

The Major arose. " Your striding up and 
down there reminds me that a little stroll on 
the street might do us both good," he said- 
" Will you wait until I get a coat and hat? " 

He rejoined me a moment later, and we passed 
through the open gate; and saying, "Let's 
go down this way," he took my arm and 
turned into a street, w^here, cooling as the 
dusk was, the thick maples lining the walk, 



A WILD IRISHMAN. 197 

seemed to throw a special shade of tranquil- 
ity upon us. 

" What I meant was " — began the Major, 
in low, serious voice, — ''What I meant was — 
simply this : Our friend Tommy, though the 
truest Irishman in the world, is a man quite 
the opposite everyway of the character he has 
appeared to you. All that rich brogue of his 
IS assumed. Though he 's poor, as I told 
you, when he came here, his native quickness, 
and his marvelous resources, tact, judgment, 
business qualities — all have helped him to the 
equivalent of a liberal education. His love of 
the humorous and the ridiculous is unbounded ; 
but he has serious moments, as well, and at 
such times is as dignified and refined in speech 
and manner as any man you 'd find in a thous- 
and. He is a good speaker, can stir a politi- 
cal convention to fomentation when he gets 
fired up ; and can write an article for the 
press that goes spang to the spot. He gets 
into a great many personal encounters of a 
rather undignified character ; but they are al- 
most invariably bred of his innate interest in 
the ' under dog,' and the fire and tow of his 
impetuous nature." 

My companion had paused here, and was 
looking through some printed slips in his 
pocket-book. " I wanted you to see some of 



198 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

the fellow's articles in print, but I have noth- 
ing of importance here — only some of his 
'doggerel,' as he calls it, and you 've had a 
sample of that. But here 's a bit of the upper 
spirit of the man — and still another that you 
should hear him recite. You can keep them 
both if you care to. The boys all fell in love 
with that last one, particularly, hearing his 
rendition of it. So we had a lot printed, and 
I have two or three left. Put these two in your 
pocket and read at your leisure." 

But I read them there and then, as eagerly, 
too, as I append them here and now. The first 
is called — 

SAYS HE. 

" Whatever the weather may be," says he — 
" Whatever the weather may be, 
It 's plaze, if ye will, an' I '11 say me say, — 
Supposin' to-day was the winterest day, 
Wud the weather be changing because ye cried, 
Or the snow be grass were ye crucified? 
The best is to make your own summer," says he, 
" Whatever the weather may be," says he — 
" Whatever the weather may be! 

" Whatever the weather may be," says he— 
" Whatever the weather may be, 
It 's the songs ye sing, an' the smiles ye wear, 
That's a-makin' the sunshine everywhere; 
An' the world of gloom is a world of glee, 
Wid the bird in the bush, an' the bud in the tree, 
An' the fruit on the stim of the bough," says he^ 
*' Whatever the weather may be," says he — 
" Whatever the weather mav be! 



A WILD IRISHMAN. I99 

" Whatever the weather maj be," says he — 
" Whatever the weather may be, 
Ye can bring the Spring, wid its green an' gold. 
An' the grass in the grove where the snow lies cold, 
An' ye '11 warm jer back, wid a smiling face. 
As je sit at yer heart like an owld fire-place, 
An' toast the toes o' yer soul," says he, 
" Whatever the weather may be," says he — 
" Whatever the weather may be! " 

" Now," said the Major, peering eagerly- 
above my shoulder, ''go on with the next. 
To my liking, it is even better than the first. 
A type of character you '11 recognize.— The 
same ' broth of a boy,' only Amerzcam'zed, 
don 't you know." 

And 1 read the scrap entitled — 

CHAIRLEY BURKE. 

It's Chairley Burke's in town, b'ys! He's down til 

"Jamesy's Place," 
Wid a bran' new shave upon 'um, an' the f hwhuskers aif 

his face; 
He 's quit the Section Gang last night, and yez can chalk 

it down, 
There's goin' to be the divil's toime, sence Chairley 

Burke 's in town. 

It 's treatin' iv'ry b'y he is, an' poundin' on the bar 

Till iv'ry man he 's drinkin' wid must shmoke a foine 
cigar; 

An' Missus Murphy's little Kate, that 's comin' there for 
beer, 

Can't pay wan cint the bucketful, the whilst that Chair- 
ley 's here! 



200 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

He's joompin' oor the tops o' sthools, the both forninst 

an' back! 
He '11 lave yez pick the blessed flure, an' walk the straight- 

est crack! 
He 's liftin' barrels wid his teeth, and singin' " Garry 

Owen," 
Till all the house be strikin' hands, sence Chairley Burke 's 

in town. 

The Road-Yaird hands comes dhroppin' in, an' niver goin' 

back ; 
An' there 's two freights upon the switch — the wan on 

aither track — 
An' Mr. Gearry, from The Shops, he 's mad enough to 

swear, 
An' durst n't spake a word but grin, the whilst that 

Chairley 's there! 

Oh! Chairley! Chairley! Chairley Burke! ye divil, wid 

yer ways 
O' dhrivin' all the throubles aif, these dark an' gloomy 

days ! 
Ohone! that it 's meself, wid all the griefs I have to drown, 
Must lave me pick to resht a bit, sence Chairley Burke 's 

in town! 

'' Before we turn back, now/' said the smil- 
ing Major, as I stood lingering over the in- 
definable humor of the last refrain, "before 
we turn back I want to show you something 
eminently characteristic. Come this way a 
half dozen steps." 

As he spoke I looked up, to first observe 
that we had paused before a handsome square 
brick residence, centering a beautiful smooth 



A WILD IRISHMAN. 20I 

lawn, its emerald only littered with the light 
gold of the earliest autumn leaves. On either 
side of the trim walk that led up from the 
gate to the carved stone ballusters of the broad 
piazza, with its empty easy chairs, were grace- 
ful vases, frothing over with late blossoms, 
and wreathed with laurel-looking vines ; and, 
luxuriantly lacing the border of the pave that 
turned the further corner of the house, blue, 
white and crimson, pink and violet, went fad- 
ing in perspective as my gaze followed the 
gesture of the Major's. 

" Here, come a little further. Now do you 
see that man there? " 

Yes, I could make out a figure in the deep- 
ening dusk — the figure of a man on the back 
stoop — a tired looking man, in his shirt-sleeves, 
who sat upon a low chair — no, not a chair — 
an empty box. He was leaning forward with 
his elbows on his knees, and the hands drop- 
ped limp. He was smoking, too, I could 
barely see his pipe, and but for the odor of 
very strong tobacco, would not have known 
he had a pipe. Why does the master of the 
house permit his servants to so desecrate this 
beautiful home? I thought. 

" Well, shall we go now? " said the Major. 

I turned silently and we retraced our steps. 



202 A WILD IRISHMAN. 

I think neither of us spoke for the distance of 
a square. 

'^ Guess you did n't know the man there on 
the back porch? " said the Major. 

^' No ; why? " I asked dubiously. 

'' I hardly thought you would, and besides 
the poor fellow 's tired, and it was best not to 
disturb him," said the Major. 

'' Why ; who was it — some one I know? " 

'' It was Tommy." 

'' Oh," said I, inquiringly, '' he 's employed 
there in some capacity?" 

''Yes, as master of the house." 

''You don't mean it?" 

" I certainly do. He owns it, and made 
every cent of the money that paid for it!" 
said the Major proudly. " That 's why I 
wanted you particularly to note that ' eminent 
characteristic ' I spoke of. Tommy could 
just as well be sitting, with a fine cigar, on 
the front piazza in an easy chair, as, with his 
dhudeen, on the back porch, on an empty 
box, where every night you '11 find him. Its 
the unconscious dropping back into the old 
ways of his father, and his father's father, and 
his father's father's father. In brief, he sits 
there the poor lorn symbol of the long oppres- 
sion of his race." 



J^agwecd zit)d Fej;j;)el 



WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE. 

I. 

^yVT^HEN MY dreams come true — when my dreams 

^ ^ come true — 
Shall I lean from out my casement, in the starlight and 

the dew, 
To listen — smile and listen to the tinkle of the strings 
Of the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings? 
And as the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view, 
Shall I vanish from his vision — when my dreams come true? 

When my dreams come true — shall the simple gown I wear 
Be changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hair 
Be raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold. 
To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold? — 
Or " the summer of my tresses " shall my lover liken to 
" The fervor of his passion " — when my dreams come true? 

II. 

When my dreams come true — I shall bide among the 

sheaves 
Of happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leaves 
Shall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun, 
Till the noon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work 

IS done — 
Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers do 
The meanest sheaf of harvest— when my dreams come true. 

When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true! 
True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew; — 
The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eye 
Than any lily born of pride that looms against the sky: 
And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you, 
My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true. 
(205) 



A DOS'T O' BLUES. 

"> GOT NO patience with blues at all! 
- And I ust to kindo talk 
Aginst 'em, and claim, 'tel along last Fallj 

The J was none in the famblj stock; 
But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy, 

That visited us last year, 
He kindo convinct me diiferunt 
While he was a-stayin' here. 

Frum ever'-which way that blues is from, 

They 'd tackle him ever' ways; 
They 'd come to him in the night, and come 

On Sundays, and rainy days; 
They 'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time, 

And in harvest, and airly Fall, 
But a dose 't of blues in the wintertime, 

He 'lowed, was the worst of all! 

Said all diseases that ever he had — 

The mumps, er the rheumatiz-^ 
Er ever'-other-day-aigger 's bad 

Purt' nigh as anything is! — 
Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck, 

Er a felon on his thumb, — 
But you keep the blues away from him. 

And all o' the rest could come! 

And he 'd moan, " They 's nary a leaf below ! 

Ner a spear o' grass in sight! 
And the whole wood-pile's clean under snow! 

And the days is dark as night! 
(206) 



A DOS T O BLUES. 207 

You can't go out — ner you can't stay in — 

Lay down — stand up — ner set! " 
And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues 

Would double him jest clean shet! 

I writ his parents a postal-kyard, 

He could stay 'tel Spring-time come; 
And Aprile first, as I rickollect, 

Was the day we shipped him home! 
Most o' his relatives, sence then, 

Has either give up, er quit, 
Er jest died off; but I understand 

He 's the same old color yit! 



THE BAT. 



Tho 



HOU DREAD, uncanny thing, 
' With fuzzy breast and leathern wing, 

In mad, zigzagging flight. 
Notching the dusk, and buffeting 

The black cheeks of the night, 
With grim delight! 

II. 

What witch's hand unhasps 
Thy keen claw-cornered wings 
From under the barn roof, and flings 

Thee forth, with chattering gasps, 
To scud the air, 

And nip the lady-bug, and tear 

Her children's hearts out unaware? 

III. 
The glow-worm's glimmer, and the bright. 
Sad pulsings of the fire-fly's light. 

Are banquet lights to thee. 
O less than bird, and worse than beast, 
Thou Devil's self, or brat, at least, 

Grate not thy teeth at me! 



(^8) 



I^ 



THE WAY IT WUZ. 

AS' JULY — an', I persume 
'Bout as hot 
As the ole Gran'-Jurj room 

Where they sot! — 
Fight 'twixt Mike an' Dock McGrifF— 
'Pears to me jes' like as if 

I 'd a dremp' the whole blame thing — 

Alius ha'nts me roun' the gizzard 
When they 're nightinares on the wing, 
An' a feller's blood 's jes' friz! 
Seed the row from a to izzard — 
'Cause I WUZ a-standin' as clost to 'em 
As me an' you is! 

Tell you the way it wuz — 

An' I do n't want to see. 
Like some fellers does, 

When they 're goern to be 
Any kind o' fuss — 
On'y makes a rumpus wuss 

Fer to interfere 

When their dander 's riz — 
But I wuz a-standin' as clost to *em 
As me an' you is! 

I wuz kind o' strayin' 

Past the blame saloon — 
Heerd some fiddler playin' 

That " ole hee-cup tune!" 
Sort o' stopped, you know, 
Fer a minit er so. 

And wuz jes' about 
14 (209) 



2IO THE WAY IT WUZ. 

Settin' down, when — Jeeinses whizz! 

Whole durn winder-sash fell out! 
An' there laid Doc McGriff, and Mike 
A-straddlin' him, all bloody-like. 

An' both a-gittin' down to biz! — 
An' I WUZ a-standin' as clost to 'em 
As me an' you is! 

I WUZ the on'y man aroun' — 
(Durn old-fogy town! 
'Peared more like, to me, 
Sunday 'an Saturday I) 
Dog come 'crost the road 
An' tuck a smell 
An' put right back; 
Mishler driv by 'ith a load 

O' cantalo'pes he could n't sell- 
Too mad, 'y jack! 
To even ast 

What WUZ up, as he went past! 
Weather most outrageous hot! — 

Fairly hear it sizz 
Roun' Dock an' Mike — till Dock he shot, 
An' Mike he slacked that grip o' his 
An' fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz 
'Bout half up, a-spittin' red, 
An' shuck his head — 
An' I WUZ a-standin' as clost to 'em 
As me an' you is! 

An' Dock he says, 
A - whisperin' -like, — 
" It hain't no use 
A-tryin'! — Mike 

He 's jes' ripped my daylights loose!- 



THE WAY IT WUZ. 211 

Git that blame-don fiddler to 
Let up, an' come out here — You 
Got some burrjin' to do, — 

Mike makes 07ie^ an' I expects 
In ten seconds I '11 make two I " 

And he drapped back, where he riz, 
'Crost Mike's body, black and blue, 

Like a great big letter X ! — 
An' I WUZ a-standin' as clost to 'em 

As me an' jou is! 



THE DRUM. 

OTHE DRUM! 
There is some 

Intonation in thy grum 
Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, 
As we hear 

Through the clear 

And unclouded atmosphere, 
Thj palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear! 

There 's a part 

Of the art 

Of thy music-throbbing heart 
That thrills a something in us that awakens with a start, 
And in rhyme 

With the chime 

And exactitude of time, 
Goes marching on to glory to thy melody sublime. 

And the guest 

Of the breast 

That thy rolling robs of rest 
Is a patriotic spirit as a Continental dressed; 
And he looms 

From the glooms 

Of a century of tombs. 
And the blood he spilled at Lexington in living beauty 
blooms. 

And his eyes 

Wear the guise 

Of a purpose pure and wise, 

(212) 



THE DRUM. 213 

As the love of them is lifted to a something in the skies 
That is bright 

Red and white, 

With a blur of starry light, 
As it laughs in silken ripples to the breezes day and night. 

There are deep 

Hushes creep 

O'er the pulses as they leap. 
As thy tumult, fainter growing, on the silence falls asleep, 
While the prayer 

Rising there 

. Wills the sea and earth and air 
As a heritage to Freedom's sons and daughters everywhere. 

Then, with sound 

As profound 

As the thunderings resound, 
Come thy wild reverberations in a throe that shakes the 

ground. 
And a cry 

Flung on high. 

Like the flag it flutters by. 
Wings rapturously upward till it nestles in the sky. 

O the drum! 

There is some 

Intonation in thy grum 
Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, 
As we hear 

Through the clear 

And unclouded atmosphere. 
Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear! 



TOM JOHNSON 'S QUIT. 

71 PASSEL o' the bojs last night— 
■^ \ ^An' me amongst 'em — kindo got 
To talkin' Temper'nce left an' right, 

An' workin' up " blue-ribbon," hot; 
An' while we was a-countin' jes' 

How many hed gone into hit 
An' signed the pledge, some feller says, — 
" Tom Johnson 's quit ! " 

We laughed, of course — 'cause Tom, you know, 
He ^s spiled more whisky, boy an' man, 

And seed more trouble, high an' low, 
Than any chap but Tom could stand: 

And so, says I ''^He 's too nigh dead 
Fer Temper'nce to benefit!'^ 

The feller sighed agin, and said — 
" Tom Johnson 's quit! " 

We all liked Tom, an' that was why 

We sorto simmered down agin, 
And ast the feller ser'ously 

Ef he wa' n't tryin' to draw us in: 
He shuck his head — tuck off his hat — 

Helt up his hand an' opened hit. 
An' says, says he, " I '11 swear to that — 
Tom Johnson 's quit! " 

Well, we was stumpt, an' tickled too, — 
Because we knowed ef Tom hed signed 

Ther wa' n't no man 'at wore the "blue" 
'At was more honester inclined: 
(214) 



TOM JOHNSON S QUIT. 215 

An' then and there we kindo riz, — 
The hull dern gang of us 'at bit — 
An' th'owed our hats and let 'er whizz, — 
" Tom Johnson ^s quit I " 

I 've heerd 'em holler when the balls 

Was buzzin' 'round us wus 'n bees, 
An' when the ole flag on the walls 

Was flappin' o'er the enemy's, 
I 've heerd a-many a wild " hooray " 

'At made my heart git up an' git — 
But Lord! — to hear 'em shout that way! — 
" Tofu Johnson ^s quit I " 

But when we saw the chap 'at fetched 

The news wa' n't jinin' in the cheer, 
But stood there solemn-like, an' reched 

An' kindo wiped away a tear. 
We someway sorto' stilled agin. 

And listened — I kin hear him yit. 
His voice a-wobblin' with his chin, — 
" Tom Johnson 's quit — 

*' I hain't a-givin' you no game — 
I wisht I was! .... An hour ago, 
This operator — what 's his name — 

The one 'at works at night, you know? — 
Went out to flag that Ten Express, 

And sees a man in front of hit 
Th'ow up his hands an' stagger — ^yes, — 
To7n Johnson ^s quit^ 



LULLABY. 

HE MAPLE strews the embers of its leaves 
O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves; 
And the moody cricket falters in his cry — Baby-bye! — 
And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky — Baby-bye! — 
The lid of night is falling o'er the sky! 

The rose is lying pallid, and the cup 

Of the frosted calla-lily folded up; 

And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh — Baby- 
bye!— 

O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie— Baby- 
bye!— 
O er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie! 

Yet, Baby — O my Baby, for your sake 
This heart of mine is ever wide awake, 
And my love may never droop a drowsy eye — Baby-bye! — 
Till your own are wet above me when I die — Baby-bye! — 
Till your own are wet above me when I die. 



(216) 



IN THE SOUTH. 



The] 



HERE IS a princess in the South 
About whose beauty rumors hum 
Like honey-bees about the mouth 
Of roses dewdrops falter from; 
And O her hair is like the fine 
Clear amber of a jostled wine 
In tropic revels; and her eyes 
Are blue as rifts of Paradise. 

Such beauty as may none before 
Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips 
Of fingers such as knights of yore 
Had died to lift against their lips: 
Such eyes as might the eyes of gold 
Of all the stars of night behold 
With glittering envy, and so glare 
In dazzling splendor of despair. 

So, were I but a minstrel, deft 

At weaving, with the trembling strings 
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft 
Of rondels such as rapture sings, — 
I 'd loop my lyre across my breast, 
Nor stay me till my knee found rest 
In midnight banks of bud and flower 
Beneath my lady's lattice-bower. 

And there, drenched with the teary dews, 
I 'd woo her with such wondrous art 

As well might stanch the songs that ooze 

Out of the mockbird's breaking heart; 

(217) 



2l8 . IN THE SOUTH. 

So light, so tender, and so sweet 
Should be the words I would repeat, 
Her casement, on mj gradual sight, 
Would blossom as a lily might. 



THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL. 

HIS IS ^'The old Home by the Mill"— fer we tUl 

call it so, 

Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago. 
The old home, though, and old folks, and the old spring, 

and a few 
Old cat-tails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome 

jou! 

Here, Marg'et, fetch the man a tin to drink out of ! Our 
spring 

Keeps kindo-sorto cavin' in, but do n't "taste" anything! 

She 's kindo agein', Marg'et is — " the old process," like me, 

All ham-stringed up with rheumatiz, and on in seventy- 
three. 

Jes' me and Marg'et lives alone here — like in long ago; 

The childern all put off and gone, and married, don't you 
know? 

One 's millin' way out West somewhere; two other miller- 
boys 

In Minnyopolis they air; and one 's in Illinoise. 

The oldest gyrl — the first that went — married and died 

right here; 
The next lives in Winn's Settlement — for purt' nigh thirty 

year! 
And youngest one — was alius fer the old home here — but 

no! — 
Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho! 

I do n't miss them like Marg^et does — 'cause I got her, 
you see; 

(219) 



220 THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL. 

And when she pines for them — that 's 'cause site's only 

jes' got me! 
I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all. — But talkin' sense, I '11 

saj, 
When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed the t'other 

way! 

I haint so favor'ble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I 
Found I was only second-best when us two come to die, 
I 'd 'dopt the " new process " in full, ef Marg'et died, you 

see, — 
I'd jes' crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over 

me! 




A LEAVE-TAKING. 

HE will not smile; 
She will not stir; 
I marvel while 
I look on her. 

The lips are chilly 

And will not speak; 
The ghost of a lily 
In either cheek. 

Her hair— ah me! 

Her hair — her hair! 
How helplessly 

My hands go there! 
But my caresses 
Meet not hers, 

golden tresses 

That thread my tears! 

I kiss the eyes 

On either lid, 
Where her love lies 

Forever hid. 

1 cease my weeping 
And smile and say: 

I will be sleeping 
Thus, some day! 



(221) 



WAIT FOR THE MORNING. 



w?- 



AIT for the morning: — It will come, indeed, 
As surely as the night hath given need. 
The yearning eyes, at last, will strain their sight 
No more unanswered by the morning light; 
No longer will they vainly strive, through tears, 
To pierce the darkness of thy doubts and fears, 
But, bathed in balmy dews and rays of dawn. 
Will smile with rapture o'er the darkness drawn. 

Wait for the morning, O thou smitten child. 
Scorned, scourged and persecuted and reviled — 
Athirst and famishing, none pitying thee. 
Crowned with the twisted thorns of agony — 
No faintest gleam of sunlight through the dense 
Infinity of gloom to lead thee thence. — 
Wait for the morning: — It will come, indeed, 
As surely as the night hath given need. 



(222) 



WHEN JUNE IS HERE. 






HEN JUNE is here — what art have we to sing 
The whiteness of the lilies midst the green 
Of noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen 
Like redbirds' wings? Or earliest ripening 
Prince- Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling 
Round winey juices oozing down between 
The peckings of the robin, while we lean 
In under-grasses, lost in marveling. 

Or the cool term of morning, and the stir 
Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks; 

The bobwhite's liquid yodel, and the whir 
Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks 
Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks 
The dewdrops' glint in webs of gossamer. 



(223) 



T^e Qilded J^oU 



THE GILDED ROLL. 

JV OSING around in an old box — packed 
^^-^ away, and lost to memory for years — 
an hour ago I found a musty package of gilt 
paper, or rather, a roll it was, with the green- 
tarnished gold of the old sheet for the outer 
wrapper, I picked it up mechanically to toss 
it into some obscure corner, when, carelessly 
lifting it by one end, a child^s tin whistle drop- 
ped therefrom and fell tinkling on the attic 
floor. It lies before me on my writing table 
now — and so, too, does the roll entire, though 
now a roll no longer, — for my eager fingers 
have unrolled the gilded covering, and all its 
precious contents are spread out beneath my 
hungry eyes. 

Here is a scroll of ink-written music. I 
do n't read music, but I know the dash and 
swing of the pen that rained it on the page. 
Here is a letter, with the self-same impulse and 
abandon in every syllable ; and its melod}^ — 
however sv^^eet the other — is far more sweet 
to me. And here are other letters like it — 
three- — five — and seven, at least. Bob wrote 
them from the front, and Billy kept them for 
(227) 



228 THE GILDED ROLL. 

me when I went to join him. Dear boy ! Dear 
boy! 

Here are some cards of bristol-board. Ah ! 
when Bob came to these there were no blotches 
then. What faces — what expressions ! The 
droll, ridiculous, good-for-nothing genius, with 
his ''sad mouth," as he called it, ''upside 
down," laughing always — at everything, at big 
rallies, and mass-meetings and conventions, 
county fairs, and floral halls, booths, water- 
melon-wagons, dancing- tents, the swing, 
Daguerrean-car, the "lung-barometer," and 
the air-gun man. Oh! what a gifted, good- 
for-nothing boy Bob was in those old days ! 
And here 's a picture of a girlish face — a very 
faded photograph — even fresh from " the gal- 
lery," five and twenty years ago it was a faded 
thing. But the living face — how bright and 
clear that was I — for "Doc," Bob's awful 
name for her, was a pretty girl, and brilliant, 
clever, lovable every way. No wonder Bob 
fancied her ! And you could see some hint 
of her jaunty loveliness in every fairy face he 
drew, and you could find her happy ways and 
dainty tastes unconsciously assumed in all he 
did — the books he read — the poems he ad- 
mired, and those he wrote ; and, ringing clear 
and pure and jubilant, the vibrant beauty of 
her voice could clearly be defined and traced 



THE GILDED ROLL. 



229 



through all his music. Now, there 's the 
happy pair of them — Bob and Doc. Make 
of them just whatever your good fancy may 
dictate, but keep in mind the stern, relentless 
ways of destiny. 

You are not at the beginning of a novel, 
only at the threshold of one of a hundred ex- 
periences that lie buried in the past, and this 
particular one most happily resurrected by 
these odds and ends found in the gilded roll. 

You see, dating away back, the contents of 
this package, mainly, were hastily gath- 
ered together after a week's visit out at the 
old Mills farm ; the gilt paper, and the 
whistle, and the pictures, they were Billy's ; 
the music pages, Bob's, or Doc's ; the let- 
ters and some other manuscripts were mine. 

The Mills girls were great friends of 
Doc's, and often came to visit her in town ; 
and so Doc often visited the Mills's. This 
is the way that Bob first got out there, and 
won them all, and '* shaped the thing" for 
me, as he would put it ; and lastly, we had 
lugged in Billy, — such a handy boy, you 
know, to hold the horses on pic-nic excur- 
sions, and to watch the carriage and the 
luncheon, and all that. — ''Yes, and," Bob 
would say, " such a serviceable boy in getting 
all the fishing tackle in proper order, and dig- 



230 THE GILDED ROLL. 

ging bait, and promenading in our wake up 
and down the creek all day, with the minnow- 
bucket hanging on his arm, do n't you know !" 

But jolly as the days were, I think jollier 
were the long evenings at the farm. After 
the supper in the grove, where, when the 
weather permitted, always stood the table, 
ankle-deep in the cool green plush of the 
sward ; and after the lounge upon the grass, 
and the cigars, and the new fish stories, and 
the general invoice of the old ones, it was de- 
lectable to get back to the girls again, and in 
the old " best room " hear once more the lilt 
of the old songs and the stacattoed laughter 
of the piano mingling with the alto and fal- 
setto voices of the Mills girls, and the gallant 
soprano of the dear girl Doc. 

This is the scene I want you to look in 
upon, as, in fancy, I do now — and here are 
the materials for it all, husked from the gilded 
roll: 

Bob, the master, leans at the piano now, 
and Doc is at the keys, her glad face 
often thrown up sidewise toward his own. 
His face is boyish — for there is yet but the 
ghost of a mustache upon his lip. His eyes 
are dark and clear, of over-size when looking 
at you, but now their lids are drooped above 
his violin, whose melody has, for the time, al- 



THE GILDED ROLL. 23 1 

most smoothed away the upward kinkings of 
the corners of his mouth. And wonderfully 
quiet now is every one, and the chords of the 
piano, too, are low and faltering ; and so, 
at last, the tune itself swoons into the uni- 
versal hush, and — Bob is rasping, in its stead, 
the ridiculous, but marvelously perfect imita- 
tion of the " priming " of a pump, while Bil- 
ly's hands forget the " chiggers " on the bare 
backs of his feet, as, with clapping palms, he 
dances round the room in ungovernable 
spasms of delight. And then we all laugh ; 
and Billy, taking advantage of the general 
tumult, pulls Bob's head down and whispers, 
"Git 'em to stay up 'way late to-night!" 
And Bob, perhaps remembering that we go 
back home to-morrow, winks at the little fel- 
low and whispers, " You let me manage 'em ! 
Stay up till broad daylight if we take a no- 
tion — eh?" And Billy dances off again in 
newer glee, while the inspired musician is 
plunking a banjo imitation on his enchanted 
instrument, which is unceremoniously drowned 
out by a circus-tune from Doc that is ab- 
solutely inspiring to everyone but the bare- 
footed brother, who drops back listlessly to his 
old position on the floor and sullenly renews 
operations on his " chigger " claims. 

^* Thought you was goin' to have pop-corn 



232 THE GILDED ROLL. 

to-night all so fast!" he says, doggedly, in 
the midst of a momentary lull that has fallen 
on a game of whist. And then the oldest Mills 
girl, who thinks cards stupid anyhow, says : 
" That 's so, Billy ; and we 're going to have 
it, too ; and right away, for this game 's just 
ending, and I sha n't submit to being bored 
with another. I say ' pop-corn ' with Billy ! 
And after that," she continues, rising and 
addressing the party in general, " we must 
have another literary and artistic tournament, 
and that 's been in contemplation and prepar- 
ation long enough ; so you gentlemen can be 
pulling your wits together for the exercises, 
while us girls see to the refreshments." 

''Have you done anything toward it!" 
queries Bob, when the girls are gone, with the 
alert Billy in their wake. 

''Just an outline," I reply. "How with 
you?" 

" Clean forgot it — that is, the preparation ; 
but I 've got a little old second-hand idea, if 
you '11 all help me out with it, that '11 amuse us 
some, and tickle Billy I 'm certain." 

So that 's agreed upon ; and while Bob pro- 
duces his portfolio, drawing paper, pencils 
and so on, I turn to my note-book in a dazed 
way and begin counting my fingers in a depth 
of profound abstraction, from which I am 



THE GILDED ROLL. 233 

barely aroused by the reappearance of the 
girls and Billy. 

'^ Goody, goody, goody! Bob's goin' to 
make pictures! " cries Billy, in additional trans- 
port to that the cake pop-corn has produced. 

''Now, you girls," says Bob, gently de- 
taching the affectionate Billy from one leg and 
moving a chair to the table, with a backward 
glance of intelligence toward the boy, — "you 
girls are to help us all you can, and we can 
all work ; but, as I '11 have all the illustrations 
to do, I want you to do as many of the verses 
as you can — that '11 be easy, you know, — be- 
cause the work entire is just to consist of a 
series of fool-epigrams, such as, for instance. — 
Listen, Billy : 

Here lies a young man 
Who in childhood began 

To swear, and to smoke, and to drink, — 
In his twentieth year 
He quit swearing and beer. 

And yet is still smoking, I think." 

And the rest of his instructions are deliv- 
ered in lower tones, that the boy ma}^ not 
hear; and then, all matters seemingly ar- 
ranged, he turns to the boy with — ''And now, 
Billy, no lookin' over shoulders, you know, 
or swinging on my chair-back while I 'm at 
work. When the pictures are all finished, 



234 ^^^ GILDED ROLL. 

then you can take a squint at 'em, and not 
before. Is that all hunky, now?" 

''Oh! who's a-goin' to look over your 
shoulder — only Doc.'" And as the radiant 
Doc hastily quits that very post, and dives 
for the offending brother, he scrambles under 
the piano and laughs derisively. 

And then a silence falls upon the group — a 
gracious quiet, only intruded upon by the very 
juicy and exuberant munching of an apple 
from a remote fastness of the room, and the 
occasional thumping of a bare heel against 
the floor. 

At last I close my note-book with a half 
slam. 

''That means," says Bob, laying down his 
pencil, and addressing the girls, — "That 
means he 's concluded his poem, and that 
he 's not pleased with it in any manner, and 
that he intends declining to read it, for that 
self-acknowledged reason, and that he ex- 
pects us to believe every affected word of his 
entire speech — " 

"Oh, don't!" I exclaim. 

"Then give us the wretched production, in 
all its hideous deformity ! " 

And the girls all laugh so sympathetically, 
and Bob joins them so gently, and yet with a 
tone, I know, that can be changed so quickly 



THE GILDED ROLL. 235 

to my further discomfiture, that I arise at once 
and read, without apology or excuse, this 
primitive and very callow poem recovered 
here to-day from the gilded roll : 

A BACKWARD LOOK. 

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday, 

And lazily leaning back in my chair, 
Enjoying myself in a general way — 
Allowing my thoughts a holiday 

From weariness, toil and care, — 
My fancies — doubtless, for ventilation-— 

Left ajar the gates of my mind, — 
And Memory, seeing the situation. 

Slipped out in street of " Auld Lang Syne." 

Wandering ever with tireless feet 

Through scenes of silence, and jubilee 
Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet 
Were thronging the shadowy side of the street 

As far as the eye could see; 
Dreaming again, in anticipation. 

The same old dreams of our boyhood's days 
That never come true, from the vague sensation 

Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways. 

Away to the house where I was born! 

And there was the selfsame clock that ticked 
From the close of dusk to the burst of morn. 
When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn 

And helped when the apples were picked. 
And the "chany-dog" on the mantel-shelf, 

With the gilded collar and yellow eyes, 
Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself 

Sound asleep with the dear surprise. 



236 THE GILDED ROLL, 

And down to the swing in the locust tree, 

Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground, 
And where "Eck" Skinner, " Old" Carr, and three 
Or four such other boys used to be 

Doin' "sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round:" 
And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest. 

And again " had shows " in the buggy-shed 
Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed. 

The old ghosts romp through the best days dead! 

And again I gazed from the old school -room 

With a wistful look of a long June day, 
When on my cheek was the hectic bloom 
Caught of Mischief, as I presume — 

He had such a "partial" way, 
It seemed, toward me. — And again I thought 

Of a probable likelihood to be 
Kept in after school — for a girl was caught 

Catching a note from me. 

And down through the woods to the swimming-hole — 

Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows, — 
And we never cared when the water w^as cold. 
And always " ducked " the boy that told 

On the fellow that tied the clothes. — 
When life went so like a dreamy rhyme, 

That it seems to me now that then 
The world was having a jollier time 

Than it ever will have again. 

The crude production is received, I am glad 
to note, with some expressions of favor from the 
company, though Bob, of course, must heart- 
lessly dissipate my weak delight by saying, 
''Well, it 's certainly bad enough; though," 
he goes on with an air of deepest critical 



THE GILDED ROLL. 



237 



sagacity and fairness, ''considered, as it 
should be, justly, as the production of a jour- 
poet, why, it might be worse — that is, a little 
worse." 

" Probably," I remember saying, — -''Prob- 
ably I might redeem myself by reading you 
this little amateurish bit of verse, enclosed to 
me in a letter by mistake, not very long ago." 
I here fish an envelope from my pocket the 
address of which all recognize as in Bob's 
almost printed writing. He smiles vacantly 
at it — then vividly colors. 

"What date?" he stoically asks. 

"The date," I suggestively answer, "of 
your last letter to our dear Doc, at Boarding- 
School, two days exactly in advance of her 
coming home — this veritable visit now." 

Both Bob and Doc rush at me — but too late. 
The letter and contents have wholly vanished. 
The youngest Miss Mills quiets us — urgently 
distracting us, in fact, by calling our attention 
to the immediate completion of our joint pro- 
duction ; " For now," she says, " with our new 
reenforcement, we can, with becoming dili- 
gence, soon have it ready for both printer and 
engraver, and then we '11 wake up the boy 
(who has been fortunately slumbering for the 
last quarter of an hour), and present to him, as 
designed and intended, this matchless creation 
of our united intellects." At the conclusion 



238 THE GILDED ROLL. 

of this speech we all go good-humoredly to 
work, and at the close of half an hour the 
tedious, but most ridiculous, task is announced 
completed. 

As I arrange and place in proper form here 
on the table the separate cards — twenty-seven 
in number — I sigh to think that I am unable 
to transcribe for you the best part of the non- 
sensical work — the illustrations. All I can 
give is the written cop}^ of — 

BILLY'S ALPHABETICAL ANIMAL SHOW. 



ft 



e 



Q 



WAS an elegant Ape 

Who tied up his ears with red tape, 

And wore a long veil 

Half revealing his tail 
Which was trimmed with jet bugles and crape. 

WAS a boastful old Bear 

Who used to say, — "Hoomh! I declare 

I can eat — if you '11 get me 

The children, and let me — 
Ten babies, teeth, toenails and hair!" 

WAS a Codfish who sighed 

When snatched from the home of his pride, 

But could he, embrined, 

Guess this fragrance behind, 
How glad he would be that he died! 

WAS a dandified Dog 

Who said, — " Though it 's raining like fog 

I wear no umbrellah, 

Me boy, for a fellah 
Might just as well travel incog! " 



239 



THE GILDED ROLL. 

WAS an elderly Eel 

Who would say, — " Well, I really feel — 
As my grandchildren wriggle 
And shout 'I should giggle' — 

A trifle run down at the heel!" 



WAS a Fowl who conceded 

Some hens might hatch more eggs than she did,- 

But she 'd children as plenty 

As eighteen or twenty. 
And that was quite all that she needed. 



% 



H 



J 



WAS a gluttonous Goat 

Who, dining one day, tahle-d^hote^ 

Ordered soup-bone, au fait^ 

And fish, fapier-mache^ 
And 3. filet of Spring overcoat. 

WAS a high-cultured Hound 
Who could clear forty feet at a bound, 
And a coon once averred 
That his howl could be heard 
For five miles and three-quarters around. 



WAS an Ibex ambitious 
To dive over chasms auspicious; 
He would leap down a peak 
And not light for a week. 
And swear that the jump was delicious. 

WAS a Jackass who said 
He had such a bad cold in his head, 
If it was n't for leaving 
The rest of us grieving, 
He 'd really rather be dead. 



240 THE GILDED ROLL. 



K 



M 



N 



Q 



P 



WAS a profligate Kite 

Who would haunt the saloons every night; 

And often he ust 

To reel back to his roost 
Too full to set up on it right. 

WAS a wary old Lynx 

Who would say, — " Do you know wot I thinks? — 

I thinks ef you happen 

To ketch me a-nappin' 
I 'm ready to set up the drinks! " 

WAS a merry old Mole, 

Who would snooze all the day in his hole. 

Then — all night, a-rootin' 

Around and galootin' — 
He 'd sing "Johnny, Fill up the Bowl!" 

WAS a caustical Nautilus 

Who sneered, " I suppose, when they 've caught 
all us. 

Like oysters they '11 serve us. 

And can us, preserve us. 
And barrel, and pickle, and bottle us!" 

WAS an autocrat Owl — 

Such a wise — such a wonderful fowl! 

Why, for all the night through 

He would hoot and hoo-hoo. 
And hoot and hoo-hooter and howl! 

WAS a Pelican pet. 

Who gobbled up all he could get; 

He could eat on until 

He was full to the bill, 
And there he had lodgings to let! 



THE GILDED ROLL. 24I 

WAS a querulous Quail, 
Who said: "It will little avail 
The efforts of those 
Of my foes who propose 
To attempt to put salt on my tail!" 

|p) WAS a ring-tailed Raccoon, 

11 With eyes of the tinge of the moon, 

And his nose a blue-black. 

And the fur on his back- 
A sad sort of sallow maroon. 

SIS a Sculpin — ^jou '11 wish 
Very much to have one on your dish, 
Since all his bones grow 
On the outside, and so 
He 's a very desirable fish. 



Gp 



u 



Y 



WAS a Turtle, of wealth. 
Who went round with particular stealth, — 
" Why," said he, " I 'm afraid 
Of being waylaid 
When I even walk out tor my health!" 

WAS a Unicorn curious. 

With one horn, of a growth so luxurious^ 

He could level and stab it — 

If you did n't grab it — 
Clean through you, he was so blamed furious! 

WAS was a vagabond Vulture 

Who said: " I do n't want to insult ycr, 

But when you intrude 
Where in lone solitude 
I 'm a-preyin', you 're no man o' ctilturc!" 

IG 



242 THE GILDED ROLL. 



W 



X 



Y 



d 



WAS a wild Woodchuck, 

And jou can just bet that he could "chuck"— 

He 'd eat raw potatoes, 

Green corn, and tomatoes, 
And tree roots, and call it all '•^ good chuck!" 

WAS a kind of X-cuse 

Of a some-sort-o'-thing that got loose 

Before we could name it. 

And cage it, and tame it. 
And bring it in general use. 

IS the Yellowbird, — bright 

As a petrified lump of star-light, 
Or a handful of lightning- 
Bugs, squeezed in the tight'ning 

Pink fist of a boy, at night. 

IS the Zebra, of course! — 

A kind of a clown-of-a-horse, — 

Each other despising, 

Yet neither devising 
A way to obtain a divorce ! 

HERE is the famous — what-is-it.-* 
Walk up. Master Billy, and quiz it: 

You 've seen the rest of 'em — 

Ain't this the best of 'em, 
Right at the end of your visit .^ 



At last Billy is sent off to bed. It is the pru- 
dent mandate of the old folks : But so loth- 
fully the poor child goes, Bob's heart goes, 
too. — ^Yes, Bob himself, to keep the little fel- 
low company awhile, and, up there under the 
old rafters, in the pleasant gloom, lull him to 



THE GILDED ROLL. 243 

famous dreams with fairy tales. And it is 
during this brief absence that the youngest 
Mills girl gives us a surprise. She will read a 
poem, she says, written by a very dear friend 
of hers who, fortunately for us, is not present 
to prevent her. We guard door and window 
as she reads. Doc says she will not listen ; 
but she does listen, and cries, too — out of pure 
vexation, she asserts. The rest of us, how- 
ever, cry just because of the apparent honesty 
of the poem of — 

BEAUTIFUL HANDS. 

your hands — they are strangely fair! 
Fair — for the jewels that sparkle there, — 
Fair — for the witchery of the spell 
That ivory keys alone can tell; 

But when their delicate touches rest 
Here in my own do I love them best, 
As I clasp with eager acquisitive spans 
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands! 

Marvelous — wonderful — beautiful hands ! 
They can coax roses to bloom in the strands 
Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine, 
Under mysterious touches of thine, 
Into such knots as entangle the soul, 
And fetter the heart under such a control 
As only the strength of my love understands — 
My passionate love for your beautiful hands. 

As I remember the first fair touch 

Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, 

1 seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, 
Kissing the glove that I found unfilled — 



244 '^^^ GILDED ROLL. 

When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow, 
As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!" 
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand 
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand. 

When first I loved, in the long ago, 
And held your hand as I told you so — 
Pressed and carressed it and gave it a kiss, 
And said " I could die for a hand like this! " 
Little I dreamed love's fulness yet 
Had to ripen when eyes were wet. 
And prayers were vain in their wild demands 
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. 

Beautiful Hands! O Beautiful Hands! 

Could you reach out of the alien lands 

Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night, 

Only a touch — were it ever so light — 

My heart were soothed, and my weary brain 

Would lull itself into rest again; 

For there is no solace the world commands 

Like the caress of your beautiful hands. 

* * * -x- * * * 

Violently winking at the mist that blurs my 
sight, I regretfully awaken to the here and now. 
And is it possible, I sorrowfully muse, that 
all this glory can have fled away? — that more 
than twenty long, long years are spread be- 
tween me and that happy night? And is it 
possible that all the dear old faces — O, quit 
it ! quit it ! Gather the old scraps up and 
wad 'em back into oblivion, where they be- 
long ! 

Yes, but be calm — be calm ! Think of 



THE GILDED ROLL. 



245 



cheerful things. You are not all alone. Bil- 
ly 's living yet. 

I know — and six feet high — and sag-should- 
ered — and owns a tin and stove-store, and 
can 't hear thunder ! Billy! 

And the youngest Mills girl — she 's alive, 
too. 

S^pose I do n't know that? I married her ! 

And Doc. — 

Bob married her. Been in California for 
more than fifteen years — on some blasted cat- 
tle-ranch, or something,- and he's worth a 
half a million ! And am I less prosperous 
with this gilded roll ? 



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